


Dragon's Hoard

by Elphen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angry John, BAMF John, Because Dragons, Blood, Canon Divergence - The Great Game, Caring John, Caring Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John, Dragon Hoarding, Dragon Moriarty, Dragon Mycroft, Dragon Sherlock, Dragons, Hoarding, Human John, John Watson Being an Idiot, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessions, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Jim Moriarty, Protective John, Protective Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Slight Hypnosis, Spoilers for TGG, Transformation, Wounds, dragon claiming, inflicting wounds, out of his depth, shielding, significance of blood, treasures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2019-11-18 16:15:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 54,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18123569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elphen/pseuds/Elphen
Summary: "Of all the peculiarities of Sherlock Holmes, one wouldn’t have thought that the acquiring of things would be one of them."AU. Sherlock is a dragon, a fact he's kept hidden from John, even if he hasn't managed to keep his need to hoard items completely from him. He hasn't claimed him, however.When John is kidnapped at the end of The Great Game, he is in for a slew of other surprises than learning Moriarty's identity, and Sherlock must rush to his rescue before Moriarty decides to add John to his hoard. Permanently.





	1. The watch

**Author's Note:**

> First foray into writing anything dragon-related for me. This should be...interesting.  
> I am still rubbish at summaries. :)
> 
> I got the idea when I saw that Benedict Cumberbatch and Andrew Scott are the same age and both born in the Year of the Dragon (fire dragon, too). The rest is just me spinning ideas as per usual. :)
> 
> Oh, heads up - this is not going to be remotely faithful to the end of TGG. I'd figure you'd know but just in case (and to forestall at least a few comments on it). This is the barest skeleton used as a jump-off point.

Of all the peculiarities of Sherlock Holmes, one wouldn’t have thought that the acquiring of things would be one of them.

Oh, there was stuff littered around their flat, that was true, but that hardly constituted the same thing. To be honest, John had a semi-serious thought that a lot of it just…appeared. He certainly couldn’t remember buying some of the things they owned, and they were not things that Sherlock would’ve ever considered buying, either, and yet…there they were, indisputable in their place around the flat.

One or two of them he knew the origin of, but that was mainly because he recognised them from one case or another. Telling his friend that he couldn’t steal said items and would have to put them back was met with a complete lack of care, the kind that cats were so good at that, the I-know-it-bothers-you one.

He only tried to return an item once; when he came back from the rather embarrassing trip, it was to find the item sitting on the mantelpiece, as though it had never been gone.

Looking at Sherlock had yielded a completely calm, unaffected response…when he’d finally bothered to look up from what he was doing.

Come to think of it, none of the things Sherlock stole were ever put anywhere that might damage them. They were rarely sitting in pride of place, but they were all carefully placed all around the flat. They obviously meant something to the consulting detective, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

So…things accumulated in 221B and John got used to it, as he got used to the rest of this topsy-turvy, helter-skelter life he led with his flatmate, none of which he’d really trade for anything. He even started to add the odd bits and bobs every now and then, too, things he found interesting or pleasing. Though it might be fun to annoy Sherlock, he’d have to cope with it, too, and so he tried to find something good.

What he found rather curious was that not long after he’d purchased something, Sherlock would find it. That wasn’t the curious part, though, nor was it that it wasn’t chucked. No, what struck him as peculiar was that the few times he’d seen his flatmate spot the thing in question, he’d seemed…well, pleased, was the only way he could describe it, really. Almost gleefully so, actually, which _really_ didn’t add up.

He thought of asking but then decided against it. It didn’t matter and it was surprisingly nice to see the genius twat be happy about something that wasn’t laid out under a microscope or involved two dead bodies with one head between them.

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock?”

No answer.

“Oi, you great git, I’ve been calling your name several times now.”

“Have you? Perhaps you need speaking lessons, then, to get through to people.”

John drew in a breath, then pinched the bridge of his nose, letting the breath back out slowly. “Just tell me what you’ve done with my watch.”

“Why would I have done anything with your watch?” The twat didn’t even bother looking up from whatever he was pulling apart or liquifying or whichever.

“Because even though I know I put it where I normally do when I shower, it had mysteriously disappeared by the time I got out.”

“Perhaps it’s been taken by sewer rats coming up through the pipes.”

John stared, a stare which turned into a glare before he directed it skywards, counting backwards. “Right. Okay. Dunno why I bother questioning you in the first place, really. Just…if you need to steal something of mine, the least you can bloody well do is _ask_ first!”

With that, he turned on his heel and marched out of the kitchen, into the living room, where he grabbed his coat and shoes, put them on and stomped down the stairs, loudly to hopefully annoy.

The utter cockwaffle arsehat! It wasn’t the first thing of his to go missing where he suspected there was a certain curly-haired culprit to condemn but this was his watch. It had survived his tours in Afghanistan and the subsequent adventures with Sherlock, the berk couldn’t take it just because he felt like it.

_It’s only a watch, though, why get so worked up about it?_

Because even if it didn’t have much significance, it was still something of his, not Sherlock’s. Not even theirs, in the sense of things that were part of the flat and therefore sort of belonged to them both. It was purely John’s and the twerp had no bleeding right.

He didn’t question that it was Sherlock that had taken it, quite apart from his not even very creative bullshittery with the sewer rats – it couldn’t even fit down the pipes, if it _had_ managed to fall down there.

It had been placed on the side of the toilet sink as always and when he got out of the shower, it wasn’t there. Nobody else had been in the flat and watches didn’t go walkabout on their own, now did they?

If only he’d admit it. No, wait, that wouldn’t actually make it better, but it’d certainly be more like Sherlock, bold as brass and uncaring in his admittance of his trespass. Not that he’d see it as a trespass, like as not, come to think of it.

So why the deflection? What the hell sort of purpose did that serve?

He’d gotten out of the building and quite a long way down the street by this point but not so far that he couldn’t still see the windows of 221. Glancing back at them only briefly, he decided to keep walking, lack of destination and still damp hair be damned.

Bloody hoarding magpie, nabbing anything that took his fancy.

 

* * *

 

It was getting dark by the time John returned to 221B. He’d decided to spend the day out; it was a day off for him, anyway, there wasn’t a case on, and he’d rather get a bit of fresh air and some distance than blow up at his flatmate.

After some internal debate, he’d decided against getting a new watch. Not that he thought Sherlock would see him buying a new one as him getting off the hook, as the man wouldn’t have felt he was on the hook in the first place. He’d just…wait for some funds.

A car was parked in front of the building, a suspiciously inconspicuous one, and when he made it up the stairs, he had confirmation of his suspicion; they had a visitor. A visitor Sherlock would always rather see the back of.

Today was no exception. In fact, it was more pronounced than usual, because he could hear them all the way up the stairs, or at least their voices. Usually it was one or the other – though mostly it was Sherlock, unless he was sulking – but it was almost never them both.

That, he had to admit, peaked his interest. As much as he didn’t feel like dealing with a stroppy, childish Sherlock, well, more childish than normally, he could’ve expected that from Mycroft visiting at all, and at least this promised to be unusual and interesting.

When he reached the landing, he grew both more curious and concerned; the door was closed and the conversation, the words therein now audible, was very peculiar.

“Just how long do you think this can go on for?” That was Mycroft. “It’s unsustainable!”

That in itself wasn’t surprising, the elder brother admonishing the younger. Par for the course, really.

The birdie was in Sherlock’s reply.

“I’ve got it perfectly under control,” he snapped, “and I don’t see the problem, in any case. You’ve been doing it for years.”

What? Got what under control? The drugs? But Sherlock hadn’t been using in…and at any rate, that didn’t fit at all with the last sentence. Mycroft wasn’t on drugs. Addicted to sugar, maybe, and that was mainly if you trusted Sherlock’s accusations. Power, too, in that eminence grís sense that he preferred.

Neither of those were of any interest to the consulting detective, however, so again, it didn’t work. What on earth would they both be doing that could be dangerous enough for Mycroft to, presumably, demand that his brother should stop?

Why would Sherlock even be listening? He usually just ignored his brother and especially his admonishments.

“Not to this extent, and never merely with one. There’s a reason the done thing _is_ the done thing.”

That made even less sense.

John realised that lurking outside the front door was not only in the category of ‘a bit not good’, they would’ve heard him coming up the stairs – both of them had surprisingly good hearing, which had proved useful once or twice and been a lesson in silence when he’d wanked – and would consequently know that he was there, recognising his tread, and that he had stopped without entering the flat.

And yet, they hadn’t said anything, or even stopped arguing, which was both odd and slightly worrying, too.

Making up his mind and squaring his shoulders for whatever might happen once he went through, he pushed the door open, keeping his head down and generally going about the usual undressing ritual of coming home, as though nothing was out of the ordinary.

“Ten thousand dead people can’t be wrong, can they?” Sherlock sneered. “If only you weren’t so keen on stagnation, you might manage to _soar_ once in a while.”

Mycroft’s mouth twisted and his fingers drummed on the carved handle of the ever-present umbrella, displaying a quite uncharacteristic amount of annoyance and impatience. Not that he wasn’t necessarily feeling either or both of those at other times, but it wasn’t normally this…easily visible, as it were. Which probably showed just how fed up he was at this point.

Why he hadn’t already buggered off was a bit puzzling, too.

“When you soar, the risk of falling out of the sky to your death is very real.”

“Yes. That would be the _soaring_ part. Or has your gut finally gotten too vast for you to do so?”

Another mouth twist which was accompanied by a sigh. “Must you always stoop to such petty insults? Unimaginative ones, too. Good evening, Doctor Watson, and welcome home.”

This unexpected address stopped John in his tracks on his way to the kitchen, going quietly past them where they stood in the living room. Or rather, where Mycroft stood, and Sherlock sat in his chair.

It wasn’t as though he was afraid to confront or disturb them. Of course, he wasn’t. He just wasn’t stupid and really didn’t want to become part of their argument, either as a buffer or a pawn. That and he felt slightly stupid for the previous spying through keyholes, as it were.

“Evening,” he said, keeping his voice even as he turned around.

“Rich of you to call me petty when you drag John into the argument, even though it’s abundantly evident he’s embarrassed at having listened in and is trying to escape the situation.”

“Yes, thank you, Sherlock,” John snapped, not particularly in the mood for being called out like that – and he hadn’t entirely stopped being angry at his flatmate for his earlier stunt. “Just…carry on with whatever you were arguing about. You obviously don’t mind me being present.”

He lowered his voice as he turned around, muttering it aloud for his own benefit. “Then again, you do whatever you want regardless of my presence, consent, or objections, so why do I bother?”

As he had turned away from the living room, he failed to see the expression that flitted across the brunet’s face at that, brief but intense. Nor did he notice Mycroft’s answering expression or that he moved forward to place a meaningful hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. One which wasn’t immediately shrugged off and the subsequent whispered comment wasn’t sneered at.

“As much as I’d love to stay and enjoy your company, Doctor,” Mycroft said a little after that, loud enough for John to hear, “I was just about to leave.”

With that, he walked out, the tap of the umbrella against the floorboards making an almost pointed audial reassurance that he was leaving.

John stayed in the kitchen, though, even after the door had closed, making himself, and only himself, a cuppa. He contemplated making himself something to eat, too, as he’d only bought himself a toastie while out but decided against it, on the grounds that there likely wouldn’t be much to make anything from, and he wanted to be out of the room soon.

He wasn’t quite quick enough, though; the kettle was only just coming to a boil when he heard the padding of bare feet against the floor. They were oddly quiet, however, which didn’t tally.

“John…”

The doctor stopped, his hands clenching slightly against his sides. He didn’t look up from the countertop.

“I’m not finished being angry with you, Sherlock,” he said.

“I know – “

“Do you? Do you really?” John said, turning his head just enough to glare at the other. “And what are you going to do with that knowledge? Apologise? Better your behaviour? No, you won’t. You’ll just carry on as normal and expect me to get over it eventually.”

“John…”

“Because that’s what I do, isn’t it?” the doctor continued, either not hearing or otherwise completely ignoring his name being said. “No matter what you throw at me, you expect to have me standing beside you for your jabs and taunts and disregard of me, until you need me for something.”

More words pressed against his teeth, eager to get out, true words, harsh words. He clamped his teeth firmly shut, refusing to let them past, refusing to add more fuel to the fire. A fire that he hadn’t intended to start.

It wasn’t as though this was news. He’d known that this was how it worked between in all the time they’d lived together, so why he was suddenly getting worked up about it? It surely couldn’t be just because of the watch, and nothing else had occurred to offset it.

Maybe it was just the lateness of the hour, the particular mixture of circumstances and Sherlock, and a pot that had boiled over inside of him.

Apropos of pot…

He hadn’t touched the kettle since it’d finished boiling but his desire for a cuppa had suddenly disappeared. Closing his eyes briefly, he inhaled deeply to calm down a little. He wanted to extricate himself from the situation before he did or said something it would be too hard to take back or move past. The way he felt right now, he might believe that could happen.

Then he took a step back from the counter and, without looking at him or saying anything, pushed past his flatmate. Sherlock tried to stop him, called out his name and tried to grab his arm. John dodged the attempt and didn’t acknowledge the calling of his name.

It ought to have been enough of a clue that he wanted to be left alone, even if his demeanour and his words before that hadn’t been enough of a two-by-four for the man, especially one as observant as Sherlock.

Then again, as brilliant as the man was when it came to logic and deductive reasoning, he was often as equally inept and ignorant when it came to social clues, at least when it came to his own life and the people therein.

So, John really shouldn’t have been surprised when he heard footsteps on the stairs up to his room shortly after he’d gotten up there himself and closed the door, hard.

“Go away, Sherlock!” he shouted. The footsteps paused but only for a moment. They didn’t get fainter when they resumed, either, so he wasn’t moving away.

That bloody berk never knew when to leave well enough alone, did he?

He wrenched open the door to come face to face with his flatmate, who had his hand out to, judging by the height and angle of it, grab the door handle.

“What part of this do you fail to understand? Or do you just care that little about what I say?”

Sherlock looked a little confused, his brow wrinkling. “You know I value your input – “

“Oh, yeah? You could’ve fooled me.” Despite his words, his felt the anger drain and become a bone-deep weariness with just a smidgeon of loathing, though that wasn’t directed entirely at his flatmate. “Just…go away. Please? You’ve done enough today, and if you say you don’t know what or even anything at all, possibly, I’m not sure what my reaction’s going to be, but it won’t be pleasant. So…just go away.”

With that, he closed the door, emphatically but not hard. He stayed where he was, listening for footsteps going back down the stairs.

It took a few moments, but they did come, slowly but surely.

He released a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding.

Right. That was it. He needed some sort of outlet, to help him deal with when his anger boiled over for no apparent reason.

Feeling pissed off with Sherlock _and_ himself, he headed to bed, where he spent almost an hour tossing and turning, before he finally fell into a sleep that was far from good.

 

* * *

 

Back down in the living room, Sherlock sat and scowled, at nothing in particular. That was, until his phone chimed with an incoming text.

Hoping it was a case to take his mind off John, he picked it up, only to snarl when he saw the sender. Nevertheless, he opened it.

It read,

‘You need to take better care of what you claim, or you’ll break things beyond repair. MH’.

What you claim. How very… _Mycroft_ a way of phrasing it. As if he could ever…and it wasn’t as though he actually _claimed…_ okay, so he’d _taken_ something from John, but that was different. That was just a thing, a little trinket that John would soon forget he missed. His flatmate wasn’t that hung up on material things, not really.

But that was something special to him, something with history and significance otherwise there wouldn’t be any point in taking it, would there?

He pulled out the watch from where he’d stashed it to look at it.

It wasn’t anything special, to look at. Just another men’s watch, with wear and tear and a little crack in the glass but still of some sturdiness, which it would have to have been to survive two tours in a warzone owned by a doctor, a _surgeon,_ who’d like as not have his arms deep in something, in someone.

But there was no denying that even if John wasn’t sentimental about his belongings, he took good care of them, made sure they worked for the longest possible time.

_Well, it’s his kit, isn’t it? A soldier takes care of his kit, because if he does, it takes care of him. No wonder he doesn’t appreciate you claiming it._

He hadn’t claimed it! He’d just…

Couldn’t he just buy John a new one? A better one, perhaps, that could withstand being submerged and other such useful things, given what and who they regularly had to deal with on cases. To be honest, what and who John had to deal with. That would certainly be –

No, that wouldn’t work. Not only would that like as not be seen by the doctor as admitting guilt, however he swung it to convince him otherwise – and when did John become that well-versed in his little trick? Or was Sherlock ascribing more astuteness to him than warranted? – he wouldn’t accept it, and especially not from Sherlock.

What could he do, then?

Put it back where he’d found it or where he knew it likely that John would’ve placed it himself in a moment of cognitive failure, and then make it out to be just that but not to worry, that happened to everyone, except him, of course?

He found that his fingers were smoothing over the glass of the dial and the leather of the strap. That was, until he thought of giving it back, by which time they tightened on the accessory, quite instinctively.

No. Just…no. He wouldn’t give it back. Even though he didn’t want John to be mad at him, he wouldn’t.

He _couldn’t._

But John might not forgive him. Which wasn’t an option, either.

What to _do_?

He didn’t know. At all.

 

* * *

 

This hadn’t been a good idea to begin with. Yes, so he’d been angry at Sherlock for his comment, for his whole demeanour regarding the case and other people in particular. He still was, in the back of his mind as other emotions had taken the driver’s seat, but the anger hadn’t been born purely there, had it? Nor was it the first time he’d reacted with anger at it or had stormed out.

It wasn’t as though it was the first time Sherlock had regarded people as things, either, was it?

That was certainly the case for the man in front of him right now. The man who’d had people kidnap him off the street after he’d stormed out, had had him bound so well he couldn’t move, let alone escape and had then seated him in the most comfortable chair John could remember sitting in.

Those contradictory actions had been odd but then, when he’d seen the man, sauntering quietly towards him, they paled in comparison.

Not that there was anything that obviously wrong. There couldn’t have been, or he couldn’t have pulled off ‘Jim from IT’, could he? And he most certainly had pulled that off, to the point that no one, not even Sherlock, had registered anything was amiss.

That took _skill._

Then again, would he have expected anything else from who could only be Moriarty?

Now, though, there was no denying that even though it wasn’t visible or audible, there was a definite though insidious feeling that something was off about him.

It wasn’t helped by the way he now began to smile, slow like someone was gradually pulling at the strings that controlled the relevant muscles. It wasn’t a happy smile, a dangerous one, or even a bonkers one. That was to say, it was somewhere in between, managing to combine the strongest components of the three.

John would dearly have loved to slog him one. Or, barring that with his hands being very thoroughly and immovable tied, he tried to manoeuvre his foot and lower leg out and around…

The dark-haired man moved his leg up and away as soon as John started to shift, as though he’d not just read his movement but his intention, too. Which, given who it was, probably wasn’t far off.

“Now, now,” he chided, almost slightly sing-song as he continued to stare at the blond, “that’s no way to say hello, is it? And here I made all this effort.”

He held his foot aloft – John could tell from the slight bending of his knee, accentuated by the folds of expensive fabric – for a little longer, just keeping eye contact, that same smile playing around his lips like a baby shark in a school of fish.

Then suddenly, without warning, the foot slammed down, the hard heel of the leather brogues making impact with John’s forefoot with strength and precision. The effect was excruciating.

Despite that, John somehow managed not to react other than a twitch of the eyes and a long, sharp inhalation. He kept eye contact, almost demonstratively, while his body did its best to process the pain quietly.

Kidnapped or not, bound tight or not, criminal genius in front of him and calling the shots or not, he was not going to back down or roll over like some good little puppy.

A few emotions flickered across the other man’s face at that, fast as the frames of a movie, too fast to catch. What he settled on wasn’t what John would expect, though possibly, he should learn not to expect anything.

He looked amused and yet…disappointed? No, not quite that. But there was the sense that he’d expected differently from John.

Well, _good._

“Ever the steadfast little soldier, eh, Johnny-boy?” Moriarty said, voice seemingly pleasant in its tone.

Something lurked in its depths, however, and it seemed, at least to John, that it wasn’t merely the underlying danger of a man with an intellect apparently matching Sherlock, who’d funnelled his energy and staving off boredom into something decidedly more sinister than what his friend and flatmate got up to.

_That’s not to say he’s completely in the clear, though, is it? You know how flexible Sherlock’s compass is, regardless of what you say or try to do. It’s not really that farfetched a thought that given other circumstances, and not that different at that, Sherlock could’ve found something equally malevolent, if not completely the same, to do with his time._

But even Sherlock didn’t have that depth in both his eyes and voice, however much of a baritone it might be, something on the edge of awareness that spoke of things in dark recesses, caves and the bottoms of wells. Waiting to pull you in or down with it and never release you.

Which was a completely ludicrous, fanciful thought. Madman though he may be, Moriarty wasn’t exactly a fairy tale monster. They didn’t exist, after all.

But for a real-life equivalent for storybook monsters, madman consulting criminal was an eerily good candidate, wasn’t it? About the best you could hope for, really.

The erroneous but still relieving thought of, _‘For what it’s worth, it’s probably better for Molly to think her ex-boyfriend was gay and not admitting it rather than know he’s a psychopath’,_ flitted through his head.

Then he had to grit his teeth and swallow more pain as the heel still pinning his foot down applied a little more pressure and _twisted_ just so.

“Your manners leave something to be desired, though,” the Irishman chided in that same tone that only served to burrow deeper under the doctor’s skin with each passing word.

“One would’ve thought Sherlock had put more effort into the training of his little pet but then again,” he continued, then his voice suddenly dropped to a hissing growl, “he never did take very good care of his possessions, did he?”

Possessions? John wasn’t a possession, least of all Sherlock’s, the git.

He opened his mouth to refute the point. To spit anything in the other’s face, really.

Before he could voice anything, however, he was thoroughly halted by something unexpected; Moriarty leaned forward further, right up so his face was inches from John’s, and then he inhaled. A deep, slow pull, as though he was sampling the scents on the air like one would the bouquet of a wine.

And that pushed it firmly beyond odd and well into weird, not to mention just a little unsettlingly creepy.

Then the man leaned back, though in John’s opinion nowhere near far enough.

As he did so, his lips spread in a more fully-grown version of the grin from before. It almost seemed to stretch beyond the boundaries of his face, fanciful and bloody ludicrous as that sounded. His dark brown eyes seemed almost black.

He didn’t say anything, however, just regarded John with that same expression that took in everything and was amused by what it saw.

All in all, it would be uncomfortable at most distances. Up close like this, it sent a chill into John’s bones, one that was very close to the thrill he felt when they were on a case and about to do something dangerous. Uncomfortably close, perhaps, with a tilt that turned something exciting into something eerie while remaining exactly the same.

What the hell did the man _want_? John wasn’t boring or uninteresting, he wasn’t that down about himself, but he was no genius, either, nothing to catch the attention of the Irishman. His appeal to Moriarty could only be through his connection with Sherlock, and even then, he’d miscalculated greatly if he thought that Sherlock would be hurt by this turn of events.

The words ‘then I’ll continue not to make that mistake’ flittered painfully through his mind at that, along with the expression on Sherlock’s face as he said them, and he briefly closed his eyes against them. As though that would help.

A hand grabbed his jaw, thumb somehow managing to dig into one of his temporomandibular joints, which snapped his eyes open immediately.

“There you go again with the bad manners.”

“Excuse me for being…so uncouth,” he managed to hiss, trying to keep his jaw from moving too much, as the thumb hadn’t moved. “I wasn’t taught the right etiquette…for meeting murderous psychopaths in…ridiculously expensive suits. Please…enlighten me, so I will know…in the future.”

Moriarty blinked at that, a shadow passing briefly over his features before disappearing as though it’d never been.

Then he chuckled and moved his thumb over John’s cheek in what with others might be called a caress. John couldn’t help a shudder, despite his best efforts to suppress it.

“Oh, Johnny-boy. I’m beginning to think I might not give Sherlock his little possession _back.”_


	2. Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock realises something is off, what that something is and starts running to the rescue. Meanwhile, John gets a show he didn't ask for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, what a lot of kind feedback! Thank you so much!  
> Now I'm worried what I have planned won't live up to expectations but I suppose that's just how it goes, especially for me. :)  
> The chapter summary might possibly suggest something sexual, but it's not, just to assure you.

It took a while before Sherlock noticed something was wrong, though not quite so long as John would’ve predicted it’d take, if anyone had asked him.

Whatever his doctor thought, however, Sherlock almost always had a good, and accurate, estimation of where he was. Not that he let on that that was the case, of course, or John would’ve gotten quite mad at him. Probably would’ve accused him of using Mycroft to help spy on him where he went.

He wouldn’t stoop to his brother’s methods – he didn’t need to.

All he needed was something to home in on, and even in the melting-pot that was London, seemingly, deceptively ordinary John stood out like a beacon. It had come as quite the surprise when he’d first discovered it, but now he was very grateful for it.

Not knowing sent a chill down his spine.

If he needed to, he could use something that belonged to John as a form of dowsing wand to locate him. It was rare that he did need to, however, and it had dwindled in occurrences steadily in the time they’d lived together. He’d much rather not need it, for several reasons, but he’d learned to his cost that relying on his skills alone without the object as a backup was a foolhardy idea.

For such a purpose, the watch was quite simply perfect; not only did it hold significance to John and was therefore very firmly tied to him, it was, due to the amount of wear it had seen, embedded with his scent, in the leater strap, like few other of his belongings were.

That wasn’t the reason he’d failed to return it in the time since he’d stolen it over a week earlier, though it was the reason he told himself the times he’d felt a stab of…of something at the thought.

John hadn’t forgiven him for it, either. Oh, on the surface he’d returned to his normal demeanour, current case and subsequent blow-up earlier in the day excluded, well enough that to outsiders, it would appear as though nothing was the matter.

Scratch just slightly at that surface, however, and it was abundantly evident that the incident was neither forgotten nor forgiven.

That said…in the last two days, there had also been the growing feeling of resignation that John most often ended up feeling when it came to Sherlock’s behaviour. No, not forgiven but also aware that almost nothing he could say or do would alter it.

However, that wasn’t entirely true. In fact, Sherlock had noticed that he’d altered and changed his behaviour to please John more often than he would’ve thought he would for somebody else.

That ought to bother him but to be honest, it hadn’t for a little while. About the same amount of time the thought of being alone at 221B again _had_ begun to bother him, quite significantly more so. A thought which he’d been more than a little thrown by, enough so that he’d tried to counter steer, at least on the outside, to make sure that he betrayed none of it.

In that vein, he had gone and purchased another watch for his flatmate, in a style that didn’t smack of unnecessary expenditure but would fit and appeal to John. He had yet to give it to him, though.

But because John had stormed out, angrier than Sherlock had seen him in ages, he’d made the mistake of relying on assumptions, and therefore hadn’t actually made an honest effort to check on where he went.

John would return home when his anger had quietened, if not to the same embers that always smouldered at the core of his being, then to a slightly higher intensity than that. That could take hours or the rest of the night.

When he did notice something was off, it jolted him out of his Mind Palace, where he’d been examining some piece of information relevant to the case, hard, the realisation coming through from his body rather than his mind but no less strong or insistent for that.

It told him that John wasn’t detectable.

He scoffed at the notion but nevertheless, he didn’t return to what he’d been doing. Instead, when he closed his eyes it was to check, certain in the knowledge that it was just a stray bit of instinct that didn’t like knowing, at all times, acting up.

He wasn’t there.

Frowning a little, in annoyance and certainly not in alarm, Sherlock intensified his search, sifting through the throng of unimportant scents and presences faster and faster to locate the one that he’d grown so accustomed to.

So attached to.

Still, he got no better result. His frown deepened and, unacknowledged, his chest tightened.

No problem. All he needed was a bit of a focal point to help him fixate on the correct datapoint, and he had just the thing for that.

The implications of the fact that he didn’t have to move far to dig out the watch he didn’t examine.

Feeling it between his fingers, sensing John’s presence _in_ the object, he closed his eyes again and, with the red thread of his presence, he searched for the counterpoint, its parent, as it were.

Nothing. Not so much as a thread. It was as though John had vanished off the –

No. That wasn’t right. Not quite. There was a thread, too thin and frail to be used as a point of location, but there…and it was gone.

Or rather, it’d been deliberately shielded. By someone who was capable of achieving it completely, the number of which ran to a surprisingly small number within the city.

It didn’t take much to make the connections after that.

He had to admit, he was more than a little impressed. Not only with the case as a whole, though that was unquestionably a large part, but with the fact that he had managed to remain undetected while building his net, that particular metaphor quite wrong in the circumstances.

Oh, not when it came to him being a criminal mastermind. Granted, that was something, too, and the sheer _class_ of case, or cases, he’d been given to solve was unquestionably something to admire. But it wasn’t what pushed it over the edge.

That admiration, however, faded somewhat in the face of the knowledge that he’d employed those skills to kidnap his flatmate and shield him, too. Shield him so well, in fact, he was impossible to detect, even for Sherlock.

No one should touch John – except for Sherlock.

That thought came unbidden, surprising him, and not in a pleasant way.

Mycroft’s words echoed through his mind, much as he’d rather they not.

He _hadn’t_ claimed John. Not…like that, anyway. He wouldn’t do that to…he had no _interest_ in doing that, to John or anyone else. Things were fine as they were.

He could function just fine. He _could_.

But now, with Moriarty not only in the picture, but having kidnapped and shielded John, things were different, and not for the better.

He only realised he had one arm through his coat sleeve when the silk of his dressing gown pooled up around his elbow, which made it difficult to move it further up.

Where was he going?

To find John, of course, and get him out of the hands of that grubby, little –

Yes, alright, but was he really that keen, that mind-haltingly intent on getting to him that he was willing to run pell-mell through the streets in the vagueish hope that he could locate John just through that.

No, of course not. He’d just been…acting before he…thought.

It wasn’t as clear-cut as he’d always thought, then, was it?

He cursed under his breath. But now wasn’t the time to think about that. Time was of the clichéd essence, and he needed to be dressed for it. Apart from his dressing gown, he was in proper attire, except for jacket, socks and shoes.

As quickly as possible, he changed, slipping John’s watch into his pocket on the off-chance it’d help him. All things considered, it was highly improbably, to say the least, but it wouldn’t hurt.

Then he stopped, hand on the door handle.

He was panicking. Genuinely starting to panic. Why was he panicking? John was capable and skilled, he could take care of himself, even against someone like…

But that was the point, wasn’t it? Moriarty was no longer just a genius criminal, he was one of them, and he’d taken the time to –

He pulled his phone out of the other pocket.

‘How long have you known? – SH’ he wrote, fingers moving quickly.

‘How lovely to hear from you, dear brother. Known what? – MH’

‘Don’t play dumber than you already are. You know perfectly well. – SH’

‘I’m afraid that I don’t. – MH’

‘He’s taken John. He’s shielding him. – SH’

There was silence for a few minutes after that, which Sherlock spent running down the stairs as he pulled on his coat, and a good way down the street. He wasn’t going to hail a cab before he had an idea of –

_Oh, you **idiot**._

He threw up a hand and got a cab almost immediately, rattling off the address before he’d sat down.

_I’m coming, John. Just hold on._

 

* * *

 

John stared at the Irishman, not quite believing what he’d heard. Give him back? What the hell did he mean ‘give him back’? And there was that word again, ‘possession’. He wasn’t anybody’s possession, let alone Sherlock’s.

Yes, okay, so he might have taken a few extra moments to appreciate the way fabric pulled and strained over the body that should’ve been lanky but was more athletically wiry and the way his face softened when a genuine smile graced it. He wasn’t blind, after all, and okay, he might also have found his fingers itching to touch from time to time, but he’d kept it contained within himself, knowing that it wouldn’t be appreciated.

Sherlock was married to his work and that was that.

But even if he hadn’t been, even if they _were_ in a relationship, John would still bridle at the idea that he was the brunet’s possession. That suggested a very unhealthy relationship dynamic that he had no wish to be part of.

He turned the stare into a glare and tried to pull his head free. The hand tightened, fingers digging painfully into flesh – wait, hang on. That didn’t feel like the blunt edges of fingers or even nails. It felt more like the claws of a dog digging in, only sharper. Much sharper.

He could feel his skin being punctured.

Moriarty grinned at him, presumably seeing the expression in his eyes.

“Sherlock didn’t tell you, did he?” he asked. “No, obviously he didn’t.”

“Tell me what?”

The dark brown eyes seemed to glint an amber gold for a moment and the grin seemed more like the baring of teeth before a predator struck.

Then Moriarty let go of John’s jaw, trailing a little blood from the puncture wounds, and took a few but long steps backwards, spreading out his arms as he did so.

John blinked. Then he narrowed his eyes only to open them wide, all in a determined effort to make some sort of sense of what he was seeing, and even so, it didn’t compute.

Moriarty wasn’t a big man, at least physically, but somehow, without changing in stature or girth, he seemed to slowly but surely grow and take up more and more of the room until he practically filled it all.

One might argue that it was a trick of the light, but while there was a definite shadow, it couldn’t be explained away by that.

For one thing, a trick of the light couldn’t explain that the part that had grown had transformed in more than size. That while there stood a medium-height, relatively normal-looking Irish madman in an overly expensive suit in front of him, in front and above and around him lay a…

A dragon.

There could be no doubt about it, utterly ludicrous though it sounded – and it did sound beyond ludicrous. There was no such thing as a _dragon_ in the world nor any other mythical creatures. They were a physical impossibility through and through, only feasible within the imagination.

And yet…that stand became a great deal harder to take, never mind maintain, when amber-coloured reptilian eyes stared _down_ at him over a scaled snout, its nostrils smaller than he would’ve imagined. Horns stood straight up rather than curl and a row of spikes ran the length of its spine, the blackness of them complimenting the burnished dark bronzes and coppers of the scales.

Its spread wings mirrored the spread arms of the human, the membranes a milky colour.

There was one more place where the two mirrored each other, and that was the grin. John couldn’t decide on which face it looked more unsettling. At least on the dragon’s, one would expect it to look reptilian.

He couldn’t help it, he stared. It wasn’t entirely with disbelief or shock, either. Some of it was fascination, some was childlike joy, and just a smidgeon of it was admiration, despite his best efforts.

The enormous head, which had been held up and back a little, moved closer to him. Again, it was difficult to judge whether the human or the dragon face was the most unsettling.

What was only slightly easier to judge was the corporeality of the dragon. It wasn’t true to say that it wasn’t there or a vivid optical illusion. That would be hard to claim when you could feel the heat coming off the scaly snout right in front of you, and yet…he wasn’t entirely sure that if he could reach a hand out, it would connect with anything.

“Oh, I’m real, Johnny-boy,” Moriarty’s voice, sounding slightly deeper and reverberating, said. It was one voice that seemed to come from two mouths. “Very much so. Every. Last. Inch.”

With each word, he moved closer still. By the time he almost touched John’s face, the maw opened, and a tongue snaked out. The doctor tried to pull away but was prevented by the bonds and the chair which, while comfortable, was unfortunately also unmovable. So, instead, to do something, he turned his head.

Not that it helped; the moist slickness of a tongue pressed lightly against his cheek.

Somewhat surprisingly, though, it stopped at that and withdrew almost immediately. Then again, he supposed the point had been made by then – the dragon shape was real enough that it could touch him and with something as inimitable as a tongue, as well.

As the appendage disappeared behind the sharp teeth again, the expression in the dragon’s eyes turned a little thoughtful, if not outright puzzled, which was odd.

John decided then and there that he’d had about enough weirdness for one day, and if Moriarty wanted a pawn or a bargaining tool or even just something of Sherlock’s for a toy, then he could pick something else – the skull, for example!

No, not the skull, come to think of it. He’d grown to like the skull.

But the point remained. He had no intention of being a thing, a possession, for either or both of them to use and misuse as they saw fit. Yes, okay, he would never have guessed in a million years that _this_ would happen, because who would? But regardless, it was still the same person behind the eyes, whatever colour or shape they had, and whoever was looking out through them wasn’t…all there, as it were.

“Is there a point to this other than to show off and possibly scare the life out of me?” he asked, keeping his gaze on the human version. “Don’t you have some explosives to wrap me up in like you did with the other victims?”

Not that he wanted that to happen, of course he didn’t. He wanted very much to survive this – he hadn’t made it through two tours of Afghanistan, the agonising hell of being shot and his recovery and all the rest of it just to die as a plaything of an impossibility because his berk of a flatmate couldn’t leave well enough alone.

But just because he _was_ afraid didn’t mean that he was going to let that control his actions.

The sight of the dragon head tilting slightly to the side in an inquisitive manner ought to have looked endearing or at the very least silly. It didn’t.

“You think I only stole you because you’re worth something to dear little Sherlock,” Moriarty said. “That the only interest you could possibly generate would be through your connection with him, at least aside from when it comes to the sexual conquests. That you’re safely boring on your own.”

John tilted his head up at that and lifted both eyebrows, mostly in defiance. That wasn’t true. Though, he had thought that about the interest being based around his friendship with Sherlock, hadn’t he? Bloody hell, what if he could read minds? Could dragons do that? He wouldn’t have thought so but then again, if you’d asked him half an hour previously, he wouldn’t have thought dragons were real, either.

_Calm down, idiot. So what if he can? What does that actually change? Sherlock can’t read minds, but he might as well be able to with his skills._

Yes, but Sherlock, for all his faults, wasn’t a criminal madman.

Nor a dragon.

The maw opened but before anything could come out – John had the distinct feeling that it was roughly a fifty-fifty chance at any given moment whether it would be words or something altogether more lethal, if not more dangerous, coming out of that mouth – the sound of an incoming text could be heard, and it didn’t come from John’s phone.

The dragon shape shifted and faded a little but didn’t disappear as the dark-haired man checked his phone, with one finger held up to ask for time. As though John could gallivant out of there with a very heavy chair still tied to him.

When Moriarty looked up again, the only difference between the eyes of the dragon and that of the human was the shape of the pupils and even that might be called debatable.

It made John wonder how much the two shapes were interconnected; whether one was merely a projection of the other, more corporeal one or whether they were mirrors of each other, each as real and substantial as the other at any given moment. Somehow, the latter seemed by far the more likely one, though a person being in two bodies at once seemed farfetched to say the least. But then again, the limits of farfetched were almost non-existent in the context of a dragon.

“Look lively, pet, your knight in shining armour is about to arrive,” Moriarty said, the dragon shape fading further until it was almost entirely a shadow lurking on the wall behind the Irishman.

He walked back up close to John and placed a finger, which still felt tipped with an absurdly sharp claw, gently on the underside of the blond’s chin.

He didn’t say anything, just looked at John as though he was contemplating what to do, his eyes still the same amber colouring of the dragon shape.

Then the pupils narrowed to thin slits and the claw turned swiftly to drag down the column of his throat, hard enough to for the skin to break and blood to seep out. Not deep enough to cause damage to the trachea or the oesophagus, thankfully, though, as you really wouldn’t be uncertain of that if it occurred. Still, it was quite the shock for him.

The claw-nail, now slightly shiny with blood, was brought up in front of both their faces.

“It’s too bad for you, Johnny-boy,” Moriarty said, and this time, his voice was a hiss, “that in the real world, knights get slaughtered by dragons, not the other way around, and dragons have no intention of sharing their treasure.”

For a fleeting moment, John had the horrible thought that he was about to be gutted right there and then. Then the idea that the man, dragon, _man_ was going to lick his blood off the claw flitted through his mind and while not as horrible or life-terminating as the other thought, it still filled his mouth with bile.

The former idea seemed terrifyingly close to becoming reality when the hand turned again and made a quick movement downwards.

All it cut, however, were the bonds that had held him, swiftly and without trouble, like the proverbial knife.

The fact that he was now technically free wasn’t much of a point; before he had a chance to jump up, lash out or even just move, he was grabbed by the arm by Moriarty, the grip incongruously strong for a body like that, until you remembered that it was a dragon in disguise.

It shook him more to realise that the thought didn’t shock or horrify him anymore, and even then, it probably didn’t shake him as much as it ought to do.

“Showtime,” the Irishman sneered and shoved at the blond, who was caught by two men, who were presumably the ones who’d kidnapped him in the first place, and manhandled into the same kind of Semtex vest that the other bombing victims had had on.

He closed his eyes. This was not how he had imagined the case to turn out, and that was apart from Moriarty actually being a sodding dragon.

But then, you had to roll with the punches, didn’t you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a cliffhanger. Well, sort of. Not so much by my standards? I don't know.  
> I know this is a bit on the short side but it's either this or the next one that's going to end up like that and this fitted better as the shorter one. Apologies. Hope at least it's been a little bit interesting, it certainly was to write, and that it's starting to answer a question or two and possibly raise some good new ones.  
> I hope to get the next chapter out soon, hope you'll stick with me.


	3. Poolside rendevouz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, struggling in his mind with the situation and his nature, finally makes it to the pool, with all that that entails, which might be more than he bargained for, and John...John does his best to survive being caught between two geniuses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...wow! Guys, thank you all for such amazing feedback on the last chapter. It was such a wonderful surprise, you're amazing!  
> I know 3 weeks isn't much faster than 4 but it's still an improvement, no? And it's a longer chapter, which I also hope will help. Oh, I don't know. I've mentioned it in the tags, too, but there'll be blood in this chapter. I don't think it's gory by any means but just so you know. :)

It was dark and quiet by the time Sherlock made it to the building where he knew them to be, especially for the area. Which was good for his purpose, as he had a bit of trouble keeping himself in check while he paid the cabbie and tore out of the car towards where John was.

Mycroft hadn’t answered him about how long he’d known but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that, despite the continued shielding, the closer he’d gotten, the clearer he could see that thin but growingly tangible thread of John beneath it.

Still, it was ominous that Moriarty had actually chosen to shield John rather than just kidnap him.

Shielding was only something dragons did to things they cared…no, not even that. It had nothing to do with whether they cared about the object they were shielding or not. It had to do with claiming of the object in question, nothing more.

Normally, you claimed a thing first so that other dragons would know it had been claimed. Then you shielded it, to protect it from detection by said other dragons, who might be tempted to steal it simply because it had caught the attention of a rival, and you added it to your already shielded hoard.

But that place wasn’t where Moriarty had his hoard. There wouldn’t be enough room for one.

_That rather depends on what his hoard consists of, doesn’t it? It could be china dolls, for all you know, or skulls of his victims. Or both, for that matter._

More to the point, why hadn’t he shielded John? Why had he let –

No, no. Calm down. He didn’t know whether Moriarty had laid any claim on him, had added him to his hoard –

But why else would he shield him? There were only a set number of reasons why you’d do that.

_Because he doesn’t need a reason, you idiot. You’re smarter than that. He does it because he can, because he knows it’ll mess with you. John might not think you care about him, but Moriarty isn’t as oblivious or easy to fob off. He knows that John means a lot to you, and that’s why._

Sherlock felt his lip pull into a snarl of its own accord. He would see the little snake impaled on his fangs before he allowed him to take what was –

That thought stopped him cold for a moment.

No. John wasn’t his. John wasn’t anyone’s. He wasn’t a possession, a part of a hoard and nothing more. John was and always should be his own brave, stubborn, kind, temperamental, loyal man who could think for himself. Sherlock valued those things in his friend greatly, even if he never said it, and never wanted them taken away.

That was part of the reason why he hadn’t claimed John for himself. Mycroft was of the opinion that he had in all but the formal steps and had more than once tried to make Sherlock take their connection the rest of the way for both their sakes, as he called it, but Sherlock had adamantly refused to.

To his brother, he’d maintained that he had no interest in it and no need for it. John stayed as it was, went on cases with him and even cared for him, as much as he was allowed.

Mycroft thought that he was tempting fate by letting it remain such a halfway state. That it was unsustainable to have just the one human so close, both physically and mentally, for such a long time, without formally claiming him, and that it would lead to either John crumbling under the push-and-pull of belonging and being pushed away or Sherlock’s instincts snapping and taking over, claiming him as hoard treasure and nothing more.

Sherlock had dismissed both of those, because he’d known neither would happen. He had the situation under control, he knew.

Another part of the reason was that he knew John wouldn’t take kindly to being told. Not so much what Sherlock and Mycroft was – the man had a truly remarkable skill of rolling with the punches when he needed to, even if he also chewed Sherlock out for his behaviour at the same time – but what that revelation combined with their living arrangement entailed for them both in the situation.

John getting angry wasn’t necessarily a problem on its own. His temper was a known quantity, even if that didn’t mean it was something you could toy with or wouldn’t burn you if you weren’t careful. The point was that the precedent gave some avenues of tried and true responses to said anger.

But then again, one of the things about John was that he was predictable and easy…right until he wasn’t anymore. That moment hadn’t become any easier to predict for Sherlock in the time they’d lived together, nor had the specific reaction it would cause.

Just take the watch as an example. He’d reacted far more strongly to that than predicted, and he had kept the anger up afterwards, too.

Telling him he’d been inadvertently pulled in as and was now regarded by Sherlock’s instincts as his, even if he’d not become a possession yet…that was a recipe for disaster, to say the least, and would more likely than not result in John moving out, never to return.

Sherlock never wanted that to happen, and not merely because he would have to struggle with the pain of being separated from part of his hoard. He valued John. John was irreplaceable.

Now, though, with Moriarty having made a move by kidnapping and shielding him, it was quite the different picture, and he could no longer afford to sit on the fence. If he didn’t do something, Moriarty would claim John and he’d become part of the spider’s web, whether he wanted to or not.

To add a horrible thought to it, it wasn’t even certain that John would be _alive_ when he became incorporated into the hoard. So long as there was no definitive clue as to what the Irish dragon’s hoard consisted of, it might as well be the skulls of the people he messed with.

The thought of finding John dead when he arrived sped up his stride even further, the watch grabbed hard where it was still nestled in his pocket.

_And here you kept asserting that you were above sentiment_ , an inner voice grinned, not entirely pleasantly.

It didn’t matter. He could be as soppily sentimental as Molly and right now, he couldn’t have cared less. Not when it came to John.

He could feel his wings press against his back, itching and fighting to break free of his hold on them but he pushed them down ruthlessly. The last thing they needed was some nosy little twat thinking they’d seen something interesting and coming to investigate, possibly bringing other twats to it, which would only exacerbate the matter.

That and when he did let go, he wanted to unleash it all on Moriarty.

As he advanced, he could feel John’s essence, for lack of a less clichéd term, still trapped beneath the shielding but fighting it instinctively with all his might and the icy tendrils that had wormed their way around his heart melted a little. If he was still fighting, then he was still alive, and if that was the case, then everything would be fine.

_He could still have become part of the other’s hoard, and then you’d still be buggered and not allowed to touch._

Bugger what he was allowed – if John was alive, then he was taking him home, regardless of what the slimy eel had or hadn’t done to the doctor. John wasn’t Moriarty’s!

_He’s not yours, either. You refused to lay a claim; you can hardly complain about it only after someone tries to take your toy._

But John wasn’t a toy, or a possession. It wasn’t about laying a claim. It _wasn’t_. It was about…them. Solving crimes together. Running across rooftops, chasing criminals, punching them and outwitting them. About John making him tea, getting him to eat ‘just this bloody once, Sherlock, you stick-figure’, grumbling over something or other, buying takeaway, yelling at him for putting body parts in the fridge. Laughing with him. Being with him. Staying with him. Being his friend. Being…more.

That was why he’d been so reluctant. Once he laid a claim, yes, John would belong to him, would stay with him, but he wouldn’t…it wouldn’t be his choice to do so. Not any longer, and if there was one thing Sherlock didn’t want to take, it was John’s autonomy.

It boiled down to John’s friendship. You couldn’t have a friendship where the other part couldn’t leave. Even Sherlock knew that.

_But would you rather then not have him at all? Because that seems to be the only two options you have right now, seeing as you left it this late, didn’t protect him._

No! There had to be some other way around this, some way he could get John out of Moriarty’s grip without having to take his autonomy from him.

 

* * *

 

When Sherlock entered the building, John saw him long before he saw John. Which was odd; normally it was the younger Holmes who spotted things and people before the doctor did, at least when it wasn’t people who presented a threat to them.

Then again, it was possible that it wasn’t John Sherlock was looking for, that his focus was on the possible dangers and on a lookout for Moriarty. That had to be why he was here, after all, the case and the confrontation with the one who had him so fascinated. Probably hadn’t even clocked that the blond had been kidnapped rather than having merely stormed off, so really, there’d be no reason for him to look for John, here or anywhere else.

The fact that he saw him first didn’t entail that he could call out to him or otherwise warn him, however.

If he’d thought about it, he would’ve expected, especially after being draped in explosives, that Moriarty would play it out not unlike, at the very least, the previous bombing victims. Of course, it seemed highly unlikely that he’d revealed his dragon side, as it were, to the other victims, but even so, why else would he do this?

He ought to have known that predictability wasn’t one of the Irishman’s watchwords.

Once he’d been trussed up, Moriarty had looked at him, head tilted in seeming contemplation for just a moment before he’d snapped his fingers. A gag, one made for the purpose rather than a makeshift one, had been forced between his lips despite his best efforts to avoid it.

“Ah-ah, don’t be _boring_ now, Johnny-boy,” Moriarty had hissed. “I’m sure little Sherlock wouldn’t like to find his possession in pieces. At least,” he’d grinned, “not _before_ he’s arrived. What happens afterwards…”

He’d trailed off at that, but the implications had been more than enough.

So, now instead he stood, bound in Semtex and rope, like some sort of explosion expert’s sexual Houdini fantasy, waiting for Sherlock to notice him. Which he didn’t know whether he wanted to happen or not, because on the one hand, he had no idea what’d happen after that and on the other, he didn’t want Sherlock to walk into something he wasn’t prepared for.

Granted, he was probably more prepared than John ever would’ve been, but even so, this wasn’t within anyone’s frame of reference. Or maybe it was, and it was just John who wasn’t used to dealing with a kidnap situation that involved an actual sodding dragon. Maybe that was what they got up to every other Wednesday in Whitehall.

Maybe Mycroft was a dragon, too.

An unbidden but unstoppable, slightly hysterical giggle bubbled its way up through his throat at the mental image that produced, complete with cake crumbs stuck in the scales.

The sound seemed to do the trick, in terms of getting the attention of his flatmate. To be fair, it shouldn’t have taken him long, what with the light from the pool, but he had been placed in the limited amount of shadows there were and again, it was more likely that he hadn’t been who Sherlock was looking for in the first place.

That thought was somewhat blown apart when he saw the pale eyes land on him and, even at the distance, he saw how wild they looked. Almost desperate as they darted around his face, which didn’t make any sense. Confused he’d understand, thrown by him not being where he thought. The desperation, however, which there could no doubt about now, that didn’t make sense. Why would he be desperate in relation to John?

_Perhaps he’s thinking that you’ve actually been working for Moriarty this whole time_? an inner voice asked. _Perhaps he is trying to find a clue, a kind of signifier that you aren’t, desperate because your friendship has actually meant a lot more to him than you’ve given him credit for, and he really doesn’t want to believe that?_

The fact that I’m gagged and bound ought to be a rather big signifier that I’m not, though, John argued, feeling it was a reasonable comment.

_He can’t necessarily see that_ , the voice argued back, _and even if he can, maybe he’s just thrown by the fact that you’re here when you’re not supposed to be. Or that you’re in danger. Or maybe it’s something that you can think about at a later date, hm?_

Whatever the reason behind it, there was no questioning that expression, or the fact that though he was moving carefully, there was a tension in his muscles that indicated he wanted to move at a much faster pace but was restraining himself.

A stray thought in John’s mind piped up to wonder at the idiot, coming there unarmed, when he knew what kind of person Moriarty was, and that was even ignoring the part about being a dragon. Then he thought he saw the outline of his gun in a trouser pocket as Sherlock moved and the coat slid aside but he wasn’t sure.

When Sherlock reached him – and part of the doctor couldn’t help but be surprised that he managed to get there without either of them being assaulted or blown to smithereens – the first thing he did wasn’t to ask whether John was okay. It wasn’t even to untie him or remove the gag from his mouth, both of which he’d have deemed acceptable actions.

No, what he did was something altogether more puzzling. He grabbed John’s face with both hands, broad palms and long fingers almost enveloping it, still searching with that look in his eyes. Pulling them even closer together, he inhaled deeply.

Almost…almost like Moriarty had earlier.

But why would Sherlock do that?

Could it be – no. No, he wouldn’t be. That was…John would know. He’d _know_.

_You didn’t know Moriarty was one, did you?_

Well, no, that was true, but Moriarty wasn’t his best friend. Sherlock was. It was someone you ought to know, wasn’t it? If you called someone your best friend, you’d know…perhaps not everything about them, but certainly the important things, and whether you were a ruddy dragon or not ought to bloody well be among the important things!

_But that doesn’t take into consideration whether he counts_ you _as his best friend in turn, does it? Just because the friendship means more than you thought doesn’t entail that he considers you a **best** friend._

No, he supposed it didn’t, even though that thought hurt more than a little.

Still, though, something like that…if that was even the case. He didn’t know that Sherlock was a dragon, he extrapolated from something that was farfetched to begin with, and Sherlock would probably have something to say about that.

His head was, to put it mildly, spinning. It wasn’t helped by the fact that Sherlock was actually touching him, but the touch didn’t leave the same warm feeling in the pit of his stomach that it normally did. Not exclusively so, at least.

“Sherlock?” he asked, trying to get some sort of confirmation or clue or, well, _anything_. As he was still gagged, it came out a muffled nonsense but perhaps the tone got through.

The eyes seemed to finally…well, properly focus on him, as though what he’d been looking at up until this point wasn’t exactly John, not quite.

“You’re…alright?” was what he asked as the first thing, which was odd on its own, given that clearly John wasn’t, and strange when you added the tentative relief in the baritone voice.

John glared at him. Did it _look_ like he was remotely alright? And if he had time to stand there and bloody well not just sniff him but ask inane questions, he could get him unbound and out of the bloody _explosives_ before the Irish madman dragon got the idea that he could kill two birds with one stone.

“You are, John,” Sherlock reiterated, with more confidence and no doubt about the relief this time. He still didn’t look quite put-together and alright, as one might expect from him.

“John…” he whispered.

“Oh, as if I’d lay a claim on your little pet,” came a voice from behind the doctor. “Not without an audience, at least.”

John knew he was there, had known it since he’d been pushed out there, even where exactly he was, which puzzled him. Sherlock, however, seemed to stiffen, his hands, still on the blond’s face, twitching and digging in for just a moment as his eyes regained a bit of that desperate and wild look.

Not only was that jarring, to see him have that much of a reaction to what had to be the words rather than Moriarty’s presence, which he knew about, but it confirmed something that he really could have done without ever knowing for certain.

The fingers digging in suddenly had some very sharp nails on them, and John knew that well-maintained nails was part of the ‘professional’ look his friend strived to achieve. Which didn’t include anything approaching claw-like conditions.

But that didn’t…why would those come out now? Was it some sort of indicator of emotion that they had trouble controlling? No, why would that be? It wasn’t as though you could’ve pinned any particular mood on Moriarty, as he passed through them like someone skimming a menu without picking anything, and Sherlock wasn’t one to have that much excess of emotion.

No, that was hardly fair. He did, and not just when he behaved like a five-year-old. Just look at how he’d behaved ever since he’d entered the building, that was hardly calm and collected, to say the least, was it?

The exact reason why he was shaken might be John or it might Moriarty, the doctor had no idea, but the important point was that it was enough that he’d…slipped up, if you could call it that.

Given that he, to the best of John’s knowledge, hadn’t in all the time they’d lived together, it must be quite the severe shock.

Further confirmation of that he got when pale eyes shifted from looking at the Irishman to looking at him again, and the look in them rather clearly said that he hadn’t meant to slip and certainly hadn’t meant for John to see it. The wild look was joined by a slowly dawning horror as the implications seemed to sink in.

John tried to communicate, through his eyes as he was still gagged, that it was okay.

Was it? Really?

Not only was he in the clutches of a madman, whose clutches turned out to be uncomfortably more literal than he would’ve ever thought, covered in actual explosives that might go off at the whim of said madman, his best friend turned out to be a dragon as well.

Once he thought about it, though, he was surprised and even then, probably not as much as he ought to be, to learn that yes, actually, it was alright.

Possibly it would’ve been different if Sherlock had been the first one revealed as a fire-breathing impossibility, possibly it wouldn’t, but given everything else the bloody git had thrown at him, him being a dragon, too, was somehow not that earth-shattering.

Whatever else he was, Sherlock was Sherlock, and he was his friend. His best friend, even if it was a one-sided thing.

It didn’t seem as though the consulting detective saw it. Either that or it just didn’t register.

He wanted to nudge at the other. To be honest, he wanted to grab him and tell him it was alright, that it was going to be okay, because that mixtu’re of emotions on his face was making his heart hurt terribly.

As it was, he had to settle for trying to get it across with his eyes.

All the while, he could hear Moriarty come slowly closer, the gait nonchalantly, deliberately sauntering, like someone stalking their prey while they had all the time in the world to do so.

“Jim Moriarty. Hiii!”

The tone of voice and the introduction itself was jarring but it was the sort of jarring you might expect from the man, if such a thing could be said.

What was not quite as expected, though perhaps it ought to have been, was that he kept walking until he was about a foot or so behind John. He shouldn’t have been able to tell but he could. Why could he do that?

“I think I liked you better in the other clothes. Not that that’s saying much,” Sherlock said, and his voice was disdainful and calm. One might say slightly suspiciously so, as though he was keeping a very tight rein on it.

“Oh, Sherlock. I’m hurt,” Moriarty replied, sounding theatrically so. “And here I thought we had something special together. I mean, besides little Johnny-boy here.”

The last sentence was hissed and was delivered straight into John’s ear. He instinctively tried to pull away, which was helped by the hands still enveloping his face assisting him but halted when he remembered that he was still very much covered in explosives.

“He’s not yours,” Sherlock answered, and this time, he hissed as well.

The thought of being a toy fought over by children unused to sharing anything flitted through John’s head and, while the mental image was likely inappropriate in the circumstances, it was probably mostly true.

_Great. You really are a possession, aren’t you?_

The thought made him angry.

“I’m not anyone’s,” he said through the gag, voice somehow sharp as he glared at both of them in turn. Dragons or not, explosives or not, he wasn’t that toy to be fought over until it broke, purely because the other shouldn’t have it, and he wouldn’t be treated as such. He didn’t have control over much right now, and he’d take what little he could. “I belong to myself and I’m no one’s possession.”

“Oh, but you will be, _pet_ ,” Moriarty hissed, seeming to understand him despite the gag’s muffling, and there was nothing endearing about the nickname. It felt more like a value judgement, and the judging wasn’t favourable. “Whether you want to or not, you will.”

The brown eyes flashed amber again, the pupils contracting into slits as a hand slid around the lower part of his throat, squeezing lightly but slowly increasing.

John instinctively recoiled, though his movements were still limited, given the circumstances; he could feel three sets of claws against the soft tissue of his throat and cheeks.

That was only for a brief though painful moment, however. Then one hand detached from his face to wrap around the hand pressing on his throat, pulling at it such that it automatically pressed into John’s throat as it skidded across it, clutching for purchase. It was only the force and speed with which it was done that prevented any serious damage. As it was, it did manage to cause thick welts and outright cuts, though thankfully none where it might prove dangerous.

The blood spilling forth was hard to miss, though.

Sherlock’s own eyes flashed at that, not amber but an equally disconcerting yet fascinating green-tinted white, like that of an iceberg. More immediately important, however, was the rumbling snarl that issued from his lips and the way that the grip on the other’s hand tightened until John would estimate there ought to be bones audibly crushing.

There wasn’t, probably owing to their wyvern status, but the amusement had fled from Irishman’s face. Not that John got a lot of time to see it before his view was blocked by Sherlock moving forward, still with the evidently painful grip on the other’s hand, which pushed him backwards towards the stalls.

“Don’t. Touch. Him.” Each word was articulated through the continuing snarl. “He. Is. Not. Yours.”

“Bit late to claim ownership now, isn’t it?” Though the voice was still dripping amusement, John could see as he turned that it was confined to the voice, the amber of the eyes not having returned to brown.

“All those opportunities to do so and you only make a stab at it,” the clawed fingers which had blood on them moved for emphasis, “when someone else decides to play with your toy. Really, Johnny, how can you stand to be treated such?”

Sherlock stiffened at that, hard to spot but enough that John could see it, helped by his familiarity with the lanky body and the rare occurrences of someone hitting home.

The momentary lapse was used by Moriarty to wrest his hand free. Then he brought the bloody fingers towards his mouth, his lips parting slightly in anticipation. All the while, he kept his eyes on John, amusement creeping back into his features.

It really did seem as though something about John was genuinely interesting to Moriarty, even though the doctor couldn’t for the life of him, which was probably a bad phrase in the circumstances, think of what that something could possibly be. Not that he wished to consider it, nor what would happen to him when he ceased to be interesting. Given what he was wearing at that moment, it wasn’t hard to guess, even if he didn’t want to.

What was so significant about the blood, though? It could of course merely be that he was attempting to unsettle him, but that not only seemed a little pat for Moriarty, somehow, it would hardly be something to creep out a medical doctor. Licking blood off your fingers, clawed or not, rated rather low when you’d dealt with entrails only halfway inside bodies and trying to locate the pieces of comrade the roadside bomb had sent sky-high.

It was made more obvious that it held significance when Sherlock positively roared and grabbed the hand again, this time so that the claws were squeezed between his palm. Not surprisingly, that caused the claws to slice at flesh that, despite everything else, was still humanly soft.

Sherlock didn’t so much as wince, however, even as blood seeped out and mixed with what was already there. In fact, he seemed oddly triumphant when it happened, as though he’d managed to prevent something extremely important by doing so, and the pain of the subsequent cuts were more than worth it. It likely added a little to the triumph that this time, there was a bone cracking, the snap of it clearly audible.

John, who could feel the droplets of blood trickle down his throat but could do very little except try to assess how deep the cuts were from the sting and the amount of blood that escaped, took a step backwards.

That was driven by instinct of self-preservation, though. He saw Moriarty’s eyes flash with anger and something else, as though he was keeping a lid on it but struggling somewhat to do so, and, almost more importantly, he saw tell-tale little red dots of light start to appear on Sherlock’s face and around his chest.

Another instinct overrode the first, brutally so, and propelled him, after the briefest of glares at his flatmate that was hopefully understood, forward towards the Irishman before he had a chance to think too much about it.

What was important was getting the danger away from Sherlock.

He was still bound and therefore, he couldn’t grab hold of Moriarty. That didn’t stop him, as he instead chose to barrel into the man, hoping to knock him over. He managed to do so, Sherlock letting go of the hand he held in the process, but by momentum, he went over as well.

As some part of him, though hardly a very conscious part, had calculated, the dots did indeed move from Sherlock to him, though frustratingly not all of them, and of the ones that had moved, not one of them hit the consulting criminal.

John wasn’t quite prepared for the reaction that he got from either Moriarty or Sherlock. The anger was still there in Moriarty’s expression, the smile spreading across the Irishman’s face that of an alligator about to swallow you whole, but there was just that hint of the amusement from before mixed with a smidgeon of triumph and…lust?

He would’ve denied that possibility but as he was practically lying on top of the other, that was made significantly more difficult, to say the least. Though he couldn’t, he felt even more desperate to move.

The mouth opened further, the teeth shifting to resemble those of aforementioned alligator as they moved closer, the body underneath him shifting as well, in what was, presumably, judging by the changes he could see, the same way as before.

One difference was how close Moriarty was compared to earlier, particularly his eyes, and for all that he tried, the blond couldn’t wrest his gaze away from them, the amber drawing him in as he went gradually but quickly limp and pliable on top of the other man, despite his very best efforts.

He was sure he’d been thinking about something, something important about the man beneath him, but thoughts started to become frayed and frizzled at the same rate as his body relaxed until they were as good as impossible to assemble into more than a fleeting spark before they fizzled back out into the mushy fog the rest of his brain was sinking into, frighteningly fast.

That wasn’t to say the fog was unpleasant. Quite the opposite, which contributed to lack of care he was able to muster about his current situation. A lack of care that extended to the teeth, pointed and predatory, moving towards his throat, the eye contact not breaking until it was impossible for it to be retained.

However, even though one might think that that would cause him to snap out of it, as it were, it was only when the tip of pointed teeth started to press against the soft skin of his throat that he started to resurface from the depths of pleasant mental mush. Pulling away, or attempting to, would be a very stupid decision, however, and not just because bound as he was and lying down, he had little to no leverage with which to haul himself away.

One thought did manage to penetrate the fog, shrill in its panicked clarity; he was going to die by having his throat torn out by a dragon. After everything, that was how he was going to die, by the hand, or teeth, of a consulting criminal mythical being.

He screamed through the gag, primal fear and pure fury given voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proper cliffhanger this time. Is that a good thing or a bad?  
> This was, at the same time, both difficult and interesting to write. I know this might've raised another few questions and I'd love you to voice them but they will get answers, I promise. In due time.  
> I thought there was something else I needed to mention but it's slipped my mind atm.


	4. Protection of each other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock both scramble in any way they can to make sure they both get out of this alive, protecting each other while Moriarty plays and John has to realise some things not just about Moriarty but dragons as well, including Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't think of a good chapter title. :S  
> Thank you again to all the kind people who have left feedback on this and in particular the comments.  
> I think I'll try and keep to an update every 4 weeks (possibly 6 on the outside), if I can, because it allows me the best breathing room on the stories I'm working on and keep this a regular update. Hope that's okay by everyone.

All of this happened in a very short amount of time.

Time in which Sherlock went through a myriad of emotions, the amount and strength of them immobilising him while the two others tumbled down together in a heap, John starting to crumble beneath the power of the dragon’s stare – which only worked as fast as it did, he knew, because of the time he’d already spent under the active execution of a dragon’s influence – and the jaws opened, moving closer.

When they made contact, deceptively but deliberately gently, marking rather than with any real intention of piercing, just yet, the emotions coalesced into one, of possessive, instinctive anger at someone touching what was precious to him. Something attempting to _claim_ what he treasured.

At John’s scream, his body took over much as before; one arm shot out and down to wrap around the doctor’s waist while the other, together with one rapidly emerging wing, forced their way into the gap between Moriarty’s upper and lower jaw. Then they pushed upward and backwards with as much force as possible, in the calculated hope rather than meticulous calculation that it would allow him to pull John free without any injuries, any fresh blood spilled as the previous trickles had semi-dried. Thankfully.

He didn’t quite catch what happened then, his mind a roaring sea of emotions that had been kept barely in check since he’d entered the building and had finally found John, bound and gagged and with the stench of Moriarty wafting from him.

That he hadn’t smelled claimed had been a relief but had only managed to marginally tamp down on them but the attempts by Moriarty to claim him via blood, that had sent them flaring back up, and it was a wonder he hadn’t reacted more strongly than he had.

Though it settled slightly again as he managed to spoil the attempt when he mixed his own blood with that of John’s on the other dragon’s claw, the boiling point had come with John’s scream and the resulting sea of emotions flooded him.

All he knew was that when he accomplished resurfacing, he was holding John as tight as he possibly could, arms, tail and wings having wrapped around him almost entirely, his nose buried in blond hair as his body tried to reassure his mind that no harm had been done, that he was safe and still unclaimed.

Even though he’d surfaced, it was not enough to consider the risk he ran by angering the Irishman further, with both the explosives and the significant red dots still moving about on their persons. He couldn’t seem to think further right then, not aided by the fact that he actually had John close like this, with intention and for more than a second or two, for the first time.

Not even the fact that he’d unquestionably outed himself, with no room for backtracking or easy explanations, to his flatmate, by partially transforming seemed to register. It wouldn’t have mattered, he’d know if he’d be in a state of mind to think properly about it, because John had seen the interplay between the dragons, the similarities and whatever claims Sherlock might make to the contrary, he wasn’t stupid or always unobservant.

Somehow, possibly driven by his instinct and the urgency of the situation, his mind managed to push through enough to register not only that John’s heartbeat was swift and erratic, showing no signs of slowing down as he still perceived danger, but that Moriarty was rising from the ground, his wings rising along with him as he did so. The rest of him remained mostly human but the wings themselves were unquestionably real as they rose upwards, resembling the closed wings of a butterfly, even if the wings themselves brought more bats and pterodactyls to mind.

“It’s purely a matter of time, Sherlock,” he said, his voice low and calm. “As long as you don’t claim him, he will be vulnerable to others.”

“There aren’t any others.” They didn’t see John’s worth.

Eyes that were still amber glinted. “Oh, you don’t think so? You think he couldn’t possibly have any interest to anyone aside from you? I’m ever so sorry to disappoint you but you’re WRONG!”

With the roar on the last word, the wings unfurled – incredibly large, Sherlock vaguely noted, for the size of the man – and he stood up the rest of the way.

Sherlock wanted to escape, and he wanted to kill, so of course what he ended up doing was to release John briefly as he spun him around to put himself between the two, his own wings unfurling. They weren’t quite as large as they would be if he changed completely, but they were large enough and flexible, along with his body, to hopefully, block John from both the danger that Moriarty himself posed and the red dots of the weapons.

If it all hit him, even if he was hurt, he wasn’t human and fragile. John was.

He wouldn’t allow them to harm John. Ever.

It then occurred to him that he had forgotten something very important; the explosives that his blogger was decked out in was still a factor and could still cause serious damage, to him, and, of course, death to John.

What to do? What to do? Think, Sherlock, think! You’re supposed to be a genius, it ought to be a doddle!

The pool would be the best option for getting rid of the vest, but he didn’t have the time nor the freedom of movement to accomplish it. Every other option his mind was able to conjure met the same problem.

Strangely, he thought he felt John…not exactly relax but change in tension, from what he’d term pure fear to something more military.

A noise cut through the tense silence, slightly menacing in its unexpectedness and shrill clarity. Then it registered what it was; the ringtone from Moriarty’s phone, garish in its choice.

The demeanour changed again, as abruptly and completely as the cut of a scene.

“Hang on a sec, got to take this,” he said, flashing an, of all things, apologetic smile, as though he was merely being slightly rude to a customer.

He answered the call and started to walk away, the wings shrinking but not disappearing.

Once the man was out of sight, Sherlock took a quick but small step backwards, just enough that he could reach out and remove the gag.

“The gag isn’t a ruddy priority right now!” was the first thing out of John’s mouth once the gag fell away.

It was a fair point, but Sherlock needed to ask him something and it was too important to rely on muffled, halfway unintelligible words and glares. At least, that was what he told himself.

To try and somehow make up for it, and to move while Moriarty was absent, he immediately went to work untying the ropes and opening the vest to remove it as swiftly and as safely as he possibly could.

“John, I need you to tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“What exactly did he do? While he was shielding you, what did he do to you?”

He continued in his mind. _Did he try any other way to claim you that I’m not aware of? Was I too late after all and he was purely playing with me, trying to imply that I had a chance to prevent it?_

“He didn’t do anything – “John started to say.

“ _Do not lie to me_.” The words came out a commanding snarl, which wasn’t intentional. With great effort, he tried to rein some of the anger in. “Please, John. It’s crucial.”

“Forgive me for correcting your priorities, Sherlock,” John ground out between his teeth, his eyes darting around the room as he spoke, “but right now, _crucial_ is getting the explosives off me and figuring out a way to get out of here without snipers blowing me to smithereens. You’ll probably be fine whatever happens.”

The last sentence had more than a smidgeon of bitterness to it, which was understandable in the circumstances.

“I’ll protect you from those.” As he spoke, he looked back down at what he was doing, his fingers worked frantically at the rope bindings and the fastenings of the vest, haste and panic making them clumsy. They were coming off, though, but not for the first time, he dearly wished that his wings and tail had digits or at least were more prehensile.

“Like you’re doing right now?” The words were tight and still ground out.

Sherlock glanced back up, to see the dots focused right back at John, mainly on his chest and his forehead.

“They won’t shoot before they get the order.” The confidence in the answer was one he didn’t feel.

“Oh, and you know that, do you? Like you know that he won’t give the order while he’s away or pop right back in to do so?”

“No, I do not _know_ that,” he snapped back, the calm slipping from his grasp again, his attempts to keep the reins only partially successful. It wasn’t helping the removal any. “Of course, I don’t _know_ that. I’m not a mind reader or a physic. My deductions tell me they and he wouldn’t but there’s no guarantees with someone like Moriarty. But if that should come to pass, I can move with sufficient speed, so long as you aren’t too far away from me, to be able to reach you before any bullets can reach you.”

Even so, he tried to will his fingers to move faster. They were almost there; the bonds, which had gone over and across the vest at certain places, were gone and he was working on the vest itself.

“The wings would be a help in that, obviously.” Still that tightness. Was it merely because of the situation or was there something Moriarty had – no, of course not, what would he do? Of course not.

“Yes, they would,” he snapped again, “and I don’t see why I shouldn’t employ whatever means I have at my disposal, regardless of your disdain for them, if it means keeping something treasured safe.”

He felt John tense immediately and cursed himself for the slip of the tongue. He meant them but in the context of being a dragon, it could come off the wrong way, and it would just figure that Moriarty would’ve used the word in front of John previously, just because.

There wasn’t time to dwell on that, though, or spend a lot of time explaining. If it meant keeping him safe, making sure he was alive and well and outside the influence of… _things_ such as Moriarty, then Sherlock could handle John being angry and possibly disgusted with him.

He could even…even live with it if it resulted in him moving out, refusing to work with or even see Sherlock again. If that was what his safety took, then that would be worth it. It would. He’d live. Of course, he would. He was a bleeding dragon, what else would he do?

Pushing those thoughts aside, along with the rest of what swirled inside his brain, fractured thoughts and spikes of emotions continuously creating a tempest in his mind, as best he was able to, he ignored everything but the vest and the act of keeping his wings around as much of John as they could cover.

There was something that wasn’t quite right about the smell of the vest, in comparison with the ones they’d dealt with before, something…

Not now! Later! John! Safe! Most important! Focus!

The last of the vest open at last, after what felt like hours but was no more than minutes at most, he began to push it off, ignoring the tiny part of his mind that as always delighted in touching John. Not wasn’t the time, regardless of whether he would ever get the opportunity again.

He kept his ears metaphorically turning throughout, to listen for and find any possible indication that the triggers were being pulled or the other dragon was sauntering his way back into the pool area.

It was not something that he usually employed, that wyvern gift of unusually good hearing. In fact, he made a point of ignoring any points that he might pick up on through it when he was on a case, preferring to rely on his mental faculties rather than a coincidence of birth. Right now, however, he would employ any possible trick he knew.

John assisted as best he could, lowering his shoulders to help it slide off easier, his body otherwise completely still. That was apart from his eyes, which kept darting around as they tried to assess the danger, tried to work out how best to counter it.

_Ever the soldier._ The thought was filled with pride rather than mockery or condescension.

The moment that the vest slid off, Sherlock shifted his grip to make sure he didn’t let go of it prematurely, then took a long step to the side, though no longer than he could still protect John with his wing, to then hurl it towards the water, aiming for the middle as best he could, listening all the while for revealing noises.

As soon as he let go of it, he stepped back to wrap John up completely, without even bothering to see where it landed; as long as it landed in the water, or indeed, so long as it was off and away from John, he didn’t care.

He noticed that John not only allowed him to pull him back in but wrapped his own arms around Sherlock’s waist. Why would he do that? The protection he could understand he’d want, but…

His thoughts were derailed when John spoke, what he said getting his attention.

“They’re not going to shoot.” There was a flat but somehow still wary tone to the doctor’s voice, as though he was certain of his statement but at the same time wasn’t going to take any chances.

“Of course, they are,” Sherlock snapped back. “It’s only a matter of – “

“They’re not going to shoot,” John repeated. “They’ve had plenty of opportunity already, both to shoot independently or to have been given the orders, yet neither has happened. It makes it highly improbable that it’s going to happen, especially given who we’re dealing with.”

Sherlock made sure he had eye contact before he pointed out, “Moriarty is a madman and he wants you dead.”

John didn’t back down. “He’s also a dragon, a dragon who doesn’t have any interest in me dead, not before he’s claimed me, anyway, as evidenced by the fact that he had plenty of opportunity to do so while he’d kidnapped me and yet, I’m still alive. And he doesn’t want to claim me without an audience. You in particular, again evidenced by his behaviour.”

“He’s a halfway clever little sod, isn’t he?” came a voice from behind them. “Then again, what would be the fun in a pet for you without at least a modicum of brain, eh, Sherlock?”

Looking over, Sherlock saw the shorter dragon stroll back towards them, no trace that he’d ever been remotely dragon-like there. Well, almost; the fingers he kept snapping was rather sharp and claw-like.

“I’m deeply offended, though – madman?” he continued. “At least be zoologically exact, Mr. Holmes, for goodness’ sake, if you do insist on clinging to science.”

His gaze flickered over to John. “Your little knight has come to save you, it seems, Johnny-boy. Or was that exchanging one cage for another?”

“Piss off or get on with it already. What do you _want?”_ John snarled.

He made to lunge for the Irishman again, only Sherlock’s grip on him preventing him from moving, and even then, it was with considerable effort.

Moriarty merely grinned, like a kid watching a new toy, as he came to a stop a few steps from them.

“You,” he said, simply, keeping his dark brown eyes fixed on the blond. As if that was all there was to it.

Anger flared up like flames in Sherlock’s throat, just as hot and burning, some of it aided by the acid of possessiveness.

Before he could open his mouth, though, either to spit vitriol or flame, he wasn’t sure, Moriarty spoke again.

“Shall I tell you a little secret?” he asked, conspiratorially.

“That the explosives aren’t real?”

“Oh, get with the program, Sherly, OF COURSE they aren’t!” The rise in volume in the voice was as sudden and, at least to John but also just slightly to Sherlock, unexpected as before.

John had a much stronger reaction than the consulting detective, though perhaps that shouldn’t surprise him, given the circumstances and the doctor’s nature.

“You _what_?” he said, the words sounding ripped from his throat. “You fucking little shit –!”

He struggled against Sherlock’s grip on him again, this time managing to pull himself free. The moment the red dots moved to dance across his de-vested body, however, he stopped dead, looking down at them as they moved about.

The expression on his face when he looked back up, though…

It ought to have been twisted into raw rage, or some other intense expression of anger. Something that would correspond to the expression in his eyes.

It didn’t. It was calm, unmoved apart from a smile, one that promised all that the rest of his face didn’t.

“I’ll kill you,” he stated, his voice as suddenly deceptively calm as his face as he looked Moriarty in the eye, then shifted his gaze just slightly so that he wouldn’t fall back under the same spell, should the Irishman attempt it.

“I don’t care what it takes but I will kill you. You piss about, playing these elaborate games with Sherlock just because he’s not merely intelligent enough to match and outsmart you but he’s bloody daft enough to be interested in playing your sick games.”

“John…” Sherlock said, slightly pleading, as he took a step towards him.

The voice didn’t rise or change, nor did the head turn towards him, as the former soldier cut him off. “Shut up, Sherlock. Just, for once in your life, shut up. People have _died_ , so shut up!”

“That’s what people DO!” Moriarty snarled.

John snarled in turn. “All of this, this absolutely horse hockey of a case, you build all of this up, kill those people for no good goddamned reason – and then you don’t even have the bleeding stones to carry it through! I’m nothing special, I’m not interesting, just go ahead already and blow my brains out!”

He took a step forward, ignoring the way he could, by the brunet’s estimation, see the amber eyes gleam out of the corner of his eye and the cry of his name from Sherlock himself.

“But you won’t, will you?” he continued. “Because that’s not _fun_ , that’s not part of the game you two are playing, to stave off boredom. What’s another dead body to the pile? Especially if you don’t get to collect me first. It’s not that I’m intrinsically interesting, I just happened to run a different route than expected in the maze, and so I’m worth adding.”

He gave a small huff of unamused laughter with another step. ”Then again, Sherlock’s taken an ashtray before now, and a tiepin, too, to add to his collection. That’s what all the kleptomania’s really been about, isn’t it? Appeasing the inner dragon.”

The question was directed at Sherlock, who found himself answering it. “Yes.”

This really wasn’t the time for all of this! He would be fine with answering – he’d answer any question John might have, about any and all aspect of dragons, carefully and thoroughly if that was what he wanted – but right now, all he cared about was getting his flatmate, his _friend_ , back into safety.

John wouldn’t appreciate it, not one bit, but Sherlock, shaking himself from his temporary immobility and indecision, didn’t care one iota.

It was just as well; as he did so, his hearing picked up on triggers starting to be pulled. His heart suddenly thumping, he moved swiftly, propelling himself forwards, thankfully, also due to the short distance between them, reaching John just as he heard the bullets go off.  Ignoring John’s shout, Moriarty’s expression and his inner Mycroft, he wrapped himself back around his flatmate, wings and all, in time to feel the bullets hit his scales, most offering glancing blows while a few of them bit into slightly more fragile parts and caused wounds. One bullet in particular he could feel rip through the membrane of a wing.

That didn’t matter, though, nor did the pain of it.

What mattered was whether any of them had gone through and had hit John. They shouldn’t have, by his calculation, but he wasn’t a hundred percent sure, not as it stood, and he couldn’t spare the movement to check thoroughly.

He tried not to think about a bullet accidentally getting underneath or ricocheting off his scales and somehow managing to hit John that way, in a way that he might not notice and therefore wouldn’t react to.

His nostrils kicked into gear and calmed him down somewhat by informing him that they couldn’t smell any fresh blood from John, so even if he had been hit, somewhere he wouldn’t immediately notice, it wasn’t anything severe enough to be a risk factor.

There was one other important question that pushed itself to the forefront of his mind – why had they only decided to fire then? They could easily have done so at any point while John was outside Sherlock’s grip and his protection.

They were, of course, not prepared to shoot without express permission from Moriarty, and not purely because Sherlock would bet that at least half of them had been claimed by the Irishman at some point. But that just pushed the question to why he hadn’t given the permission at that point. It wasn’t as though he needed to voice it out loud.

Same reason he hadn’t put actual explosives in the vest he’d shoved the doctor into, the detective suddenly realised. The same reason John had just enumerated and expanded upon. He wasn’t interested in killing John. The blond had gotten that wrong. Not all Moriarty’s possessions were dead or soon to become so. Some had other uses.

These were not the only ones, though, that was evident, and if that was the case…then he was spreading himself quite thin. Almost dangerously so.

Then again, there was a reason the term ‘hoard sickness’ existed, even if he’d claimed ignorance about it in front of Mycroft. That was just common practice, though, surely, to feign ignorance or, better yet, indifference to anything his brother worried about or mentioned?

Such dragons were unstable, to put it mildly, and while he highly doubted that was the reason for Moriarty’s behaviour – for one thing, it would be incredibly pat and dull, two words that didn’t stick with Moriarty at all – it made his interest in John even more undesirable.

_Be honest. He could be the most wholesome figment in all creation and you’d still term his interest in John undesirable, simply because you consider John yours._

Annoyed, he crushed the thought as useless and redundant.

He only got pulled out of his head and became aware that John was attacking him when he realised that he was also trying to speak to him. To get his attention, and it wasn’t with anger in his voice. Well, not purely anger. More the one he had when he was masking shock and hurt.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, for fuck’s sake, let go of me already. Let me…fuck, your wing, it’s…let me see. I need to see.” The command of a military doctor in the voice was audible but on the next words, some personal vulnerability crept. “Please. You’re hurt. I can’t… _I need to see_.”

“It’s…fine, John,” he answered softly, aiming for as reassuring as he could get. Moriarty momentarily forgotten in the surge of affection he experienced for his doctor at the vulnerable caring he exhibited, it took him a moment to register that his voice was somewhat hoarser than he would’ve expected or intended. Why?

“Bugger off, I have eyes.”

“Priorities, John,” he hissed. His injuries could wait.

“Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just going. I look forward to our next play date, Johnny-boy. Do bring Sherlock, if you like. Got to run, things to do. It’s been fun, though – ciao!”

Though his back was turned, Sherlock could feel Moriarty’s departure in a way he hadn’t before, which was…oh!

How many dragons were still capable of genuinely vanishing? There was little doubt that he’d done it, the surge of it tangible in the air. Or was this because he was drawing on the treasure he had, letting the slightly symbiotic relationship that didn’t make it into stories feed into him, making it possible?

That required further research. Perhaps he could –

He received a hard jab in the ribs. “Oi! Don’t go into your Mind Palace now. Let me go so I can get a look at you.”

“No.”

“No? What do you mean, ‘no’? Look, I don’t – “

“Priorities, John.”

“And now you’re repeating yourself, so you’ve probably got concussion or something. Shit.”

“I don’t. But someone will have heard the shots being fired and we need to be an adequate distance from here when the cavalry arrives, preferably at home.”

He hoped that the reference to home might show John that he still wanted him there and persuade him that he ought to think of 221B as home, still, regardless of what had happened here. It wasn’t a guarantee, far from it, but he was afraid if not downright terrified, that the doctor would want to be out of his sight, for good, as soon as he’d assuaged his professional concerns about Sherlock’s status.

“Right,” John said, immediately, in a tight but no-nonsense voice, settling himself back into a more practical mode. “Come on, then.”

He shifted, still wrapped in Sherlock, so that he, presumably, would end up somewhat underneath long appendages, supporting the taller man as they made their way out. It would certainly fit with John behaviour.

Another surge of affection flowed through Sherlock at that and gave him a small hope that maybe he wouldn’t lose his friend after all. The subsequent thought that he might still, if Moriarty managed to lay his claim on John, he pushed aside, at least for the moment.

That said, he had no intention of letting John carry that burden. Even with just the added weight of the few extra dragon-related appendages, John, strong though the smaller body was, wouldn’t be able to carry him all the way back to Baker Street and getting a cab wasn’t an alternative, and not just because of the time issue.

If he could shift back, it might work, though…

“John, could you hold on a moment? Please.”

The blond thankfully did, watching him carefully, perhaps warily. So, Sherlock tried to shift back into fully human, or human-shaped, concentrating hard to speed up the process, but to no avail, which puzzled him. Another go might do it, he didn’t know, but they were running out of time for him to attempt it.

He wasn’t exactly keen on having his identity exposed, and certainly not by bumbling bobbies stumbling across them, either inside the pool or on their way back, either, come to think of it.

What to do?

Thinking of it as a possibility, he started to stretch his wings a little, more to test their flexibility and strength for possible carrying capacity than to allow John to examine his injuries. They would have time for that later.

Once he was certain, or as certain as he could be given the circumstances, that they would be able to carry his and John’s weight, at least the distance between here and Baker Street, he stretched them out further, all the while keeping his ears open for any indicators that people were arriving rather than leaving.

“Sherlock? Come on, while we have the time. If you won’t let me look at it now, at least let me help you out of here.”

“Thank you for the offer but we don’t have time.”

“There aren’t any other options!”

“There is one.” As he spoke, he unwrapped himself from the shorter man enough that he could drag him outside. Not that he couldn’t push his way through the roof if he shifted fully into dragon form, but when he couldn’t shift back into a human guise, the likelihood that he could become full dragon was minute, to say the least. In any case, there was still the same issue of time.

Once outside, he stopped. John, who had protested loudly through the trip of being dragged along, looked at him, eyes narrowed as the penny dropped all the way and was about as well-received as the proverbial bad one.

“No,” he said, voice flat. Final.

“Yes,” Sherlock countered, unfazed. “It’s the only option available right now. I cannot shift back, for whatever reason, and I cannot walk the entire way, not without being spotted.”

John’s lips pursed, more in anger than in thought. “Then fly on your own. If you think you can fly with those injuries, then go on. Go. Or fly or whatever. I’ll meet you back home.”

“No.”

“Sherlock, we don’t have much time!”

“I’m aware of that. You’re not going on your own.”

Just the thought that Moriarty was still nearby – the snipers certainly were but the risk that they’d fire on their own initiative was minimal – waiting for John to be on his own so he could try again had a shiver run through him. The fact that he had wanted an audience, an audience of Sherlock, to watch the claiming didn’t entail that he wouldn’t do it without one now, knowing that Sherlock would be able to work it out.

“You’ll have trouble enough carrying your own weight. I won’t have you crashing because they suddenly give out due to too much cargo weight.”

_Cargo? **Cargo**?_

He thought about pointing out that if he was going to fall, then they’d give out whether John was there, or he was on his own but decided against it. It would hardly go down well.

Instead, he said, “And I will not have you open and vulnerable to anything that Moriarty might attempt on the way.”

“He wanted you to see it – “

“He changes on what he wants more often than you change girlfriends!”

That stopped John cold, his eyes widening before they narrowed, and his nostrils flared minutely as he inhaled.

It was more than likely unfair, as he hadn’t had that many – and so what if Sherlock had been counting while feigning uninterest? – and it wasn’t something he probably should bring up. Right now, however, it got him to shut up and freeze for a moment.

A moment which was just about what the consulting detective needed.

He moved swiftly to grab hold of John in the way he remembered Mycroft grabbing hold of him when he was little and about the same size as the doctor when he’d been in dragon form. Of course, there were differences, but he adjusted for those.

Stretching his wings out fully and moving them back and forth once, noting how much it hurt and the whistle of the small hole, he looked up the sky to determine the cover the darkness could reasonably provide as well as estimate the shortest route to Baker Street that would leave them least at risk of being exposed by various light sources. Not that he didn’t have experience avoiding them, of course, but with his burden in tow, it’d pay to be that extra bit careful.

“Would you let go of me, you bloody stubborn winged worm!”

A small part of the brunet noted John’s customized insult and tucked it in with the hope that John might still stay, fuelling it.

Taking a deep breath and flexing his wings one last time, he took off. To his mild surprise, he rose through the air much faster and easier than he would’ve anticipated.

Granted, he hadn’t been flying partially shifted like this for a very long time, as far as he still retained memories thereof, but given his relative inexperience flying in this form, his injuries and the added aspect of his passenger, he had, if he’d thought about it, expected something a little more erratic and certainly more cumbersome.

But it wasn’t cumbersome, and if he wasn’t focused most on getting them home as quickly and safely as he could, he might take some enjoyment in the exhilaration that was a constant partner of flying, no matter how often one did it.

He did, however, take some definite enjoyment in the small gasps that was very evidently both ones of wonder and quite involuntary and unable to be stifled.

If he could show John some more joyous things such as this, it might also help.

Anything that could possibly help him secure that his flatmate stayed with him, and not because of Moriarty’s machinations and designs, he would be willing to do. Anything.

_Anything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No cliffhanger this time. Surprise.  
> This was interesting to write, in a good way, but still more than a little challenging. We'll get more answers in the next one, I promise - some of them, at least. I hope you're still all okay with the changing p.o.v.s here, it's helping me write this a lot.  
> Also, if you recognise something from somewhere, it's purely coincidence because something might have stuck in the back of my mind while I've played, which I've loved doing.


	5. The flight and coming home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has to navigate them home safely over densely populated London, with a doctor in his arms who is neither content nor quiet. He has questions to answer then and even more when they make it home. That is not all they have to contend with, though...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still beyond touched by all the amazing feedback I've received on this. You, my dearest readers, are the best. I'm sorry I've taken a bit to get this out, RL did a number on me for a month.  
> Btw, if that whole fandom-removal thing is put in motion by the EU, then...well, I'm buggered, really, as far as fandom goes. Just a heads up, really.

John would have to admit that though he’d seen places from above before, both in planes and helicopters, land, town and city, and as such ought to be relatively used to it and mostly unaffected by seeing London sweeping past underneath him.

The reality, however, was that there was a world of difference between the tiny portholes of an aeroplane or even the roaring fish-tank view of a helicopter to the relatively silent glide through the air, the wind ambling rather than rushing past his face and only the beating of powerful wings making the occasional boom in the airspace around them, allowing him to fully enjoy the jewellery that was the city at night, even though the dragon was keeping them away, both in distance and height, from the most brightly lit areas, for obvious reasons.

Neither of them spoke, even though they’d be able to.

Sherlock’s grip on him was firm and immovable, which was just as well. What had on the ground felt secure but slightly suffocating in its all-encompassing grip now felt reassuring and comforting, even with the claws still present, the certainty of the knowledge that he wasn’t going to slip out of the grasp and plummet to his death.

Even so, he felt certain that if the unthinkable should happen, Sherlock would dive after him and would pick him up before he came near the ground.

That thought, and the implicit trust that lay in it, surprised him mostly in that it didn’t surprise him. Sherlock was still Sherlock; the words exchanged between them and his general behaviour hadn’t changed at all.

Then again, why would they? It wasn’t as though he’d just been turned into a dragon – was that even possible? It sounded absurd but then, so did the concept of dragons in the physical world to begin with – and his outlook had changed according to his new body and subsequent mindset. This wasn’t a vampire or a werewolf movie.

No, but somehow, the thought of Sherlock being a vampire seemed more logical than him being a bloody dragon. It would fit with the general aesthetic of his appearance, that was for sure, what with the lean body and the pale skin and the alluring eyes and –

He resolutely turned his thoughts away from that path. Not only were they completely fruitless, he was well aware of that, this wasn’t the time, and not only because the tight grip also meant that they were rather close body-wise, and he wouldn’t trust Sherlock not to pick up on indicators other than a tell-tale bulge in his jeans.

As he turned his head enough that he could glance up at the other…his friend, he couldn’t help the feeling of whiplash and shifting ground underneath him. Of course, that was partially what he enjoyed about being in Sherlock’s company, the need to be on your toes and ready for a lot of weird things.

Even so, there was a gap so wide it was a gulf between their normal helter-skelter experiences and the associated fun, and the complete upside-down experience of discovering not just that dragons were real or that Moriarty was one – the realisation that Molly’s boyfriend was the criminal mastermind seemed almost incidental in comparison – but that he seemed genuinely interested in collecting John and that Sherlock, who was another dragon rather than just a lanky git with a penchant for nicking stuff, had an interest in laying a claim, as well.

Or at least, so Moriarty alleged. John didn’t believe him.

It was true that his earlier assertion that evening, and the fact that it was less than 24 hours ago that he’d called Sherlock a machine and had left the flat only to be kidnapped was still mindboggling, was evidently wrong. Nobody who truly didn’t care, whatever the reasons behind not caring was, would go to such trouble, put themselves in danger for someone else.

Yes, but that was when it came to a human being. Human shape or even the state he was in now, Sherlock wasn’t human, he was a mythic creature. To assume that the same rules applied, just because he wanted them to, was foolish, to say the least.

Still, it was quite elaborate set-up if there was nothing, manipulation or not.

But that wasn’t what it entailed, necessarily. It could just as easily be that he did care about John but not in the way he would expect or want. Rather, it would be the care and affection, if such a word could be used, that one bestows on a cherished possession, caring about it for what the object provided them rather than any intrinsic value of its own.

He certainly couldn’t deny that there had been something of a possessive flavour to the interactions between Moriarty and Sherlock, and he was starting to suspect that there was more to it than the aspect of children squabbling over a toy.

A sudden wind rustled through his hair. Given that he had yet to feel that strength of wind up here, even though they were soaring through the air – a small, youthful part of him was still not over the thrill, the wonder of flying, carried by an actual _dragon_ – he could only put it down to the one culprit.

He glanced back up at the brunet, though it might be more accurate to say that he glared slightly.

“You were thinking,” Sherlock said, as though that explained it all. His voice carried relatively well in the silence up this high.

“Yes, of course I was,” John shouted, just to be sure that he was heard, too. “That’s what hu – what people do.”

He thought he felt Sherlock stiffen at his slip-up.

“As always, you give them far too much credit. People go through a large part of their lives without employing much of their brains, if at all.”

“And you give them too little.”

“Not because I’m a dragon.” It was John’s turn to stiffen. “I’m not stupid, John. I know you’ve been thinking about it ever since you saw, and especially since we took off.”

“Of course, I’m thinking about you being a bleeding dragon!” John burst out. “That’s like saying ‘Don’t think about the elephant’!”

“But you don’t necessarily – one might even say automatically – ascribe the elephant motives without much proof purely because it’s entered your mind or, indeed, your living room.”

“…you’re mixing up your metaphors.”

“And you’re avoiding the point.”

“Well spotted, Poirot.” If his response was just a little tight, a teeny bit terse, what of it?

There was a pause that went on for one beat of the wings. Two. Then, “I’ll explain when we get home. I promise. Any and all questions you have about this, John, I promise I’ll answer them. Fully and truthfully.”

It was mostly the last sentence, the last point, that clinched it for the doctor. Well, insofar as the promise to tell the truth could be itself a lie.

‘One of us always tells the truth. One of us always lies’, wasn’t it? Except Sherlock somehow managed to be both at once.

He would have to ask then weigh the answers carefully. Which, truth to tell, wasn’t all that different from how he sometimes had to go about dealing with his flatmate. Not often, mind, but sometimes.

Unless, of course…

“And then you’ll make me forget?” he asked.

“What?” Sherlock sounded downright nonplussed. “Why would I do that? _How_ would I do that?”

“I don’t know, do I? But you’re currently carrying me through the air by means of a great big pair of batwings growing out of your back, through your coat with no signs of tearing, I might add, you’ve got horns visible through your curls. You made a big deal out of Moriarty not coming into oral contact with my blood, you’ve been shot several times without collapsing in a pool of your own blood, and oh yeah, you’re a blooming dragon! Excuse me for thinking some hypnosis-induced amnesia was among your arsenal of skills!”

“Calm down, John.”

“Calm? I’m perfectly calm. Why wouldn’t I be calm? Why would you say I’m not calm?”

“Apart from the fact that your voice rose on each word there, you’re shaking with it, and if you keep doing that, I’m not certain I can keep my grip on you. I don’t want you to fall.”

“Oh, you don’t, do you?”

“Of course, I don’t, you imbe – of course, I don’t. You…I’d never want that.”

What Sherlock had been about to say only to change his mind wasn’t difficult to at least hazard a guess at. Not the insult, though, the other part. John swallowed.

_Like it or not, you’re a possession._ The inner voice sounded uncomfortably like Moriarty, and though he wanted to, he couldn’t quite manage to dismiss it.

Silence ruled between them for a bit, consciously so on John’s part.

Then they were sinking, slowly but surely in a way that indicated intention rather than a fortuitous and elegant fall. As they did so, buildings became a little more distinguishable and though it was hardly the street with the most easily identifiable marks, especially not from an aerial vantage point at night, the doctor could tell they were closing in on Baker Street.

They would be dealing with this, one way or another, soon enough. He would just have to hope that the reality wouldn’t turn out to be that all he was to his friend was a possession, treasured or not.

Treasured. Should he find that funny? He honestly didn’t know.

* * *

 

If anybody had asked, Sherlock would’ve said he’d expected John to either launch into a tirade as soon as they’d made their way into their flat or give him the silent treatment. The first would be the most likely, given John’s nature and the gambit of emotions he was capable of, as well as the delayed reaction that had started to unravel while they’d been airborne.

The second was a little less likely but not outside the realms of possibility.

Either way, he’d be beyond angry, and he was. He was practically vibrating with it, even if the vibrations were small.

What he hadn’t counted on was that, upon the door closing behind them, John gave him what might be described as a withering stare for a moment or two, which was still within the realms of what he’d have expected.

Except, then he practically barked at Sherlock to take his coat off and go sit on the coffee table, growled something more under his breath and marched into the kitchen, without so much as glancing back at the halfway dragon standing in their living room.

A little stunned at the reaction, Sherlock found himself walking over to the coffee table and sitting down before his brain had a chance to catch up. To remove the coat, though…

Though he’d done research on it – dragons were hardly going to conduct full-scale, aha, research with documentation into themselves, in case someone slipped up and said documentation leaked – he still didn’t quite know how his dragon appendages could push through any clothes he happened to be wearing without there needing to be specially designed cuts in the clothing.

All his parents would say about the subject when he’d asked was that the shift was magical in nature and thus physical barriers wasn’t such an issue.

Magic. As though that was any kind of proper explanation.

They hadn’t said what would happen if he couldn’t shift, however. His wings felt solid and physical, with no hint that he could slip his coat over them or similar. That wasn’t even counting the other places on his body the bullets had touched, superficially or not so much.

He tried to shift again, on the chance that being home, being safely back in his territory, with his treasures around him, would convince his body to let him go all the way back to human. Or human-shaped, in any case.

It didn’t work. He was still stuck. _Why?_

When John marched back into the living room, their first-aid plus kit box under one arm and a bottle in the other, Sherlock was still in his coat but had tried to accommodate the doctor, or show willing, by pushing it off the shoulders as much as he could for the wings and the pain.

Pale eyes homed in on the bottle the blond clutched. No. Alcohol really wasn’t a good idea for John right now, not with everything else.

“John, I really wouldn’t advise that,” he said, his tone insisting if not outright commanding, “you’re still in a state of – “

“Shut up about what I am and am not,” John snapped, the command in his voice matching if not outdoing that of the dragon. “I’m the doctor. You’re the patient.”

It took only a moment for it to click for the brunet. Captain. Obviously.

He tried to ignore the warmth that sent through him. Now really wasn’t the time.

“You didn’t turn it off.” It wasn’t phrased as question but nevertheless, John made an expansive gesture, presumably to include all the dragon appendages.

“I can’t.”

He got a thoroughly unimpressed look for his trouble.

“I honestly can’t. I would if I could. I tried before we…left and again here, more than once, but for a reason I do not know and can’t reason out, I cannot shift either one way or the other.”

John looked at him for a moment, contemplating, eyebrows knitted.

“Well, then, I suppose it’s a mercy you didn’t discover you could only shift into full dragon form,” he muttered, sounding more as though he was thinking out loud than anything.

“Right,” he continued, “let’s see what the damage is then.”

“John, you really don’t need to – “

Another withering glare was sent his way.

“I am not in the mood for having my patience tried right now, Sherlock. This may not be my world anymore, if it ever was, but this is my domain, my expertise and you’ll not try to tell me my own job. Understood?”

The last word was a bark, one that belonged to a German shepherd rather than a pug.

John Watson might not be a dragon but that didn’t mean he had no bite.

Sherlock nodded wordlessly.

“Good.”

The doctor dug into the box, taking out whatever he thought would be necessary to administer aid. Once he was done, he left it there for the moment as he walked around the coffee table to get to the brunet’s back.

Not all the bullets that had more than grazed him had hit him there but as a good portion had, it was as good a place to start as any.

That said, Sherlock was still a little startled, stupid as that was, when he felt warm, calloused hands grab hold of one wing, on the flesh and scales covering the humerus rather than the membrane. It wasn’t rough at all and though it was professional, it couldn’t be called clinical.

It might even be termed gentle and caring but that was as likely wishful thinking.

Fingers smoothed over the scales as they searched for injuries. Sherlock couldn’t help a minute shiver.

Was he always this sensitive there? He wouldn’t have thought so, with the hardness of the scales and the utilitarian nature of the appendage, thus rendering the number of nerve endings needed in the area small. Tails or throats, or to some even horns, were usually deemed the more sensitive parts, with corresponding number of nerve endings, apart from the obvious, and yet…there was no denying that it felt sensitive now, and he couldn’t help another, slightly stronger shiver.

It transformed into a small shudder of pain, unable to be completely suppressed, as the doctor found something. He quickly moved on, however, and thankfully only found one more proper wound, at least on the wing in question, but that was quite a lot deeper hole.

Apropos of holes, he also found the hole the bullet had made in the membrane, running his finger gently around it rather than pushing it through, which Sherlock was grateful for. That said, it elicited another small shiver.

Once satisfied he’d located all injuries and assessed them in turn, he passed on to the next wing, giving it an equal amount of attention and care. However, he didn’t speak out loud during the examination, keeping whatever observations he made to himself, and Sherlock didn’t quite trust his voice right then, either.

It was a small mercy that John was behind him, at least for the moment.

By the time he’d gone over each and every wound, big, small or tiny, Sherlock was in the peculiarly situation of polar opposite feelings running through him simultaneously; he was aroused by the touches but more by the fact that it was John doing the touching, and he was nervous and apprehensive, bordering on scared, of just what would be in store when the examination was over and John laid aside his doctor persona.

He still hadn’t said anything out loud, though.

One might wonder at John’s shift from shouting and nervousness to steely calm command covering a well of anger. They seemed incongruous. But they weren’t. They were merely two facets of the large prism that was John H. Watson, even more so as they were born out of the same source; anger.

What he exhibited now was the aftermath of his earlier anger, banked but smouldering and ready to flame when needed.

Of course, the fact that they were now back at 221B, home and safe, was more than likely also a significant factor. Though he didn’t know it, John was almost certain to have picked up on the nature of the flat as a dragon’s lair and, having been invited in by said dragon, felt some of the same connection and security, even if he didn’t have any investment in the collected treasures.

_That’s not quite true, though, is it? He’s added to the treasures on more than one occasion, and he’s accepted the things you’ve brought home._

He didn’t accept the watch.

_No, because you didn’t find that or take it from someone else, you **stole** that from **him**._

Speaking of the watch, however –

He dug into his pocket, feeling slightly oddly relieved when his fingers closed around the recognisable shape. Though once he had his fingers around it, he hesitated.

John knew that he’d taken it. That was why he’d been angry with him that day, why he hadn’t been easily mollified. But that he knew, or at the very least strongly suspected, didn’t automatically entail that he’d be alright or calm when Sherlock pulled the offending article out of his pocket. In fact, given how he’d reacted when it had been taken, it was entirely possible that it’d stoke the banked fire.

But perhaps it could be used as a peace-offering and a start-off on the explanations. It was worth a try. So he convinced himself.

As John came around to the front to grab hold of the things he’d taken out of the box, possibly adding and subtracting a few things, Sherlock made a quick decision and swiftly pulled the watch from his pocket so that when John was in front of him, he’d be confronted with the watch, lying in the palm of the brunet.

He froze, blue eyes staring at the timepiece in front of him before flickering up to meet pale eyes. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything or try to take it. He just continued to stare at the other.

So, it seemed that it was up to Sherlock to break the ice, as it were.

“I’m sorry,” he began. He didn’t get further than that, however.

“No, you’re not,” John interrupted, his voice deceptively calm. He still didn’t move. “You’re never sorry. Not really. Not for things like that, for trampling all over me.”

Sherlock’s minute flinch at that wasn’t feigned, whether the doctor believed it or not. There wasn’t much doubt that he saw it.

“I know I’ve not been…” the brunet tried again.

“Human?”

Another flinch, a little more visible.

John snorted. “Guess I got that wrong,” he said, just the tiniest glimmer of dark amusement in his voice. “Half-wrong, anyway. You’re not a machine but you aren’t human, either.”

“I try to be.”

Another snort, this one more clearly at Sherlock’s expense rather than John’s own. “Oh, so compared to other dragons, you’re the human one? That’s bloody rich.”

“John, I know you’re angry – and you have every right to be. I’ve lied, yes, and kept things from you – “he saw John open his mouth, presumably to continue the list of libels – “and many more things, too. I’m not trying to get you to forgive me for all of those things at once. Or even ever.”

With his free hand, he took the doctor’s hand, which wasn’t pulled away, and placed the watch in the palm, closing the fingers around it gently, relishing the contact just a little. Again, John let him.

“I took this,” he continued, keeping the eye contact that hadn’t faltered, “not, as you’re assuming, because I’m a dragon and I cannot help myself. If that was the case, you wouldn’t be able to move for things in the building, quite apart from the flat. Whatever a dragon ends up collecting, most tend to be somewhat selective, but few are really that discriminatory over time.”

It wasn’t even purely when the hoard sickness set in, either. The idiom of ‘the more you get, the more you want’ came, though humans of course wasn’t aware of it, from dragons for a reason, after all.

“Ends up collecting? You mean it’s not a choice?” Did he hear wrong or had a bit of the anger dissipated? It certainly seemed as though John was at least willing to listen now. He needed to make the most of it.

“Not…entirely, no. Mummy collects porcelain and chinaware, for instance.”

“And Mycroft? Don’t tell me he collects cakes and other bakeware.”

“No. Groceries and other consumable products do not count as suitable hoard items.”

Mycroft had not been best pleased when he’d realised the enormous stash of biscuits that he’d managed to secret away at the age of thirteen did nothing to appease the growing emptiness and hunger. An emptiness and a hunger that started gnawing by the time a dragon went into puberty, sinking its claws in deeper and deeper until it was fed, and it never pulled its claws out entirely.

Puberty for dragons happened at much the same time as it did for humans, for all that dragons subsequently were so long-lived they were fairly well immortal.

“Suppose not. Can’t have the cake and eat it, too, as it were, and if you don’t eat it, it’ll just rot. What does he collect, then?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. John wasn’t going to like it, and with the precarious balance he had right now, he didn’t want to rock the boat.

It turned out not to matter because John worked it out for himself. Of course, he would. For all that Sherlock scoffed at him, he was anything but stupid.

“He collects people, doesn’t he?” he said. It wasn’t really a question. “That’s part of the reason why he’s settled himself in the position of a ‘minor government official’ instead of being Prime Minister or whatever. Collecting people is a lot easier in the apparently lower echelons where everybody expects everything and nothing of you as they try to climb the greasy pole and you don’t necessarily recognise an eminence grise.”

Sherlock would have to admit it, he was impressed.

“A good observation,” he said, taking a lot of care not to frame it in a way that might be construed as demeaning or patronising. Not just because he didn’t want to tip the balance but because he genuinely thought it good. “And yes, he does.”

He watched John’s jaw tense a little at that and his lips thin. However, it didn’t go further than that, which surprised him.

The doctor looked away, turning his head, too. “I wish I could say that I was surprised by that, but I suppose in the grand scheme of things, collecting people as part of your hoard to play politics is a whole lot less unsettling than collecting corpses for the same purposes.” It didn’t take a genius to work out who he was referring to.

Something seemed to click for him at that because his head whipped back around. “That’s what you collect, too, though, isn’t it?”

It would almost be better if it sounded like an accusation, if he’d been angry about it. Instead, it came out almost flat, as though it was a certainty, another fact.

The shake of the head Sherlock gave was quick and vigorous.

“No!” he said to emphasise, tone vehement. Pleading. “No, it’s not. That’s not how it works, and even if it was, I wouldn’t.”

He must’ve succeeded in conveying… _something_ of what he was genuinely feeling because John’s face softened a little at that. The wariness and the anger were still present but there was also, now, some warmth there.

However, he didn’t say anything.

Sherlock tried to deduce the expression further, but John’s face could be strangely opaque in its expressiveness when he wanted it to. Either that or he was merely too nervous of what he’d find to give it the proper examination it required.

“I wouldn’t,” he repeated instead.  Involuntarily, he grabbed tighter onto the hand he was still holding. Willing him to believe him. “They’re not interesting to me because they’re dead people or because I can add them to my pile. They’re interesting because they allow me to use my brain instead of letting it rot. You know that, John.”

There was unquestionably pleading in the last sentence. John had to know that, at least. It wasn’t even that he could collect cases. That was too insubstantial, too much of a concept rather than a physical thing for him to grab onto, and so the closest he could get was through the more meaning-packed mementos he snatched from points in the most interesting cases.

Of course, it could be argued that people were also something of an insubstantial thing to collect as well, unless you were physically holding them down or otherwise restraining them within your lair. You could do that, once you’d successfully claimed them, as evidenced by Moriarty’s control over the snipers, but to have that as your primary hoard, living, breathing things that needed care and attention to continue to function…it took a special kind of mind to not go absolutely round the bend doing that.

Mycroft seemed to have gotten around the problem to some extent, by acquiring people slowly and gradually, both in terms of the entire group and each individual, and even then, he’d found a secondary outlet for his craving by collecting umbrellas, swordsticks and other novelty canes.

One could actually chart, if anyone would bother, the moment when a brolly was broken – he never lost or had one stolen, not for long – with the corresponding tightening of some law, a crackdown on government practices or, in case of a particular favourite, the death of a foreign country’s dignitary or leader.

Corpses were a different thing altogether, as what was once a person became another object, which was part of the reason Moriarty’s system worked for him, for a given value of the term. It wasn’t the same solution as Mycroft’s because a body would continue to decay and rot, from a body to a rotting corpse to a skeleton to fragments.

It would, in a sense, be much like the aforementioned cake.

He looked at John, waiting for a reaction, an answer. Any kind of answer would do, even if it was angry shouting.

An answer he got, eventually, and it wasn’t shouting.

“I do,” John said, and his voice was quiet but tight, as though it had taken effort to get it out but was a relief once it was. “I do.”

It sounded as though the second time was somewhat easier. Even so…

“…John?”

“This…is difficult, Sherlock, don’t make it harder. Please.” He looked towards the ceiling, taking a deep, audible breath through his nose. “I want to understand. I want to because I still trust you. God help me, I do, but…fuck, it’s just such a bleeding mess and I…”

Sherlock wanted to pull him in, wrap himself back around him and tell him that it was okay, that he’d make it okay, whatever it’d take, if he’d just continue to believe in him.

In a way, it was almost funny. Especially in hindsight, seeing how John had called him a machine earlier because of his lack of care about another human being, and here he was, desperately trying to care for one human being, to protect him at all costs and to not lose him and his companionship.

He didn’t feel much like laughing, however, except perhaps in a slightly bitter way.

Even though he wanted to hold him tight again, the muscle memory of it still singing faintly in him, he didn’t dare to.

So, he was left in limbo, waiting for the coin to come down.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, John tilted his head back down. It took another smell infinity, or so it felt, before he spoke. “Who do _you_ collect, then?”

The question was very careful.

“Not who. Never who.” With his free hand, he waved a little to indicate the room around them. “What. Only and ever what. Bric-a-brac, mainly. You live with them. You’ve even contributed to them once or twice.”

“ _I_ haven’t.”

What? Oh. “No, not the watch. That’s…I’ll get to that. The things you’ve taken home from cases and such.”

He hesitated, then continued when it seemed that John was still listening, the flame of hope in his chest strengthening a little.

“They’re…the things a dragon collects have got to have value but that doesn’t entail monetary value, which is uncertain, dependent on human evaluation and, quite frankly, incredibly dull, and so is currency. Gold can assuage the hunger to a fairly large extent, though not as much as folklore would have you believe, but there isn’t enough gold in the world to satisfy the dragon population, and in any case, there are other things that can satisfy.”

“But it’s not the same, then, apart from the gold? You said your mother collects porcelain, but Mycroft collects people, and that it’s not really a choice. What then determines it?”

“The same sort of mechanism that governs taste for humans. You don’t know why you favour one style over another, one view instead of another of equal measure, beside that you know you find it pleasing. Neither do we choose what assuages the craving.”

“It is a craving, then?”

John asking questions like that was good. _Please let him go on asking questions like that._

“Yes. Ignore it and you’ll go mad.”

“Is that what Moriarty’s done, ignored it?”

“No.”

“Other side of the coin?”

“Much closer but still, no. It’s…complicated.” And given the situation, not relevant at this point, even if it would be possible to attribute such a simple explanation to Moriarty’s behaviour.

“What part of all this mythological horse shite isn’t complicated?” John snapped. “And you love when you get a chance to monologue on something you know and I don’t, so don’t give me that.”

“Does it really matter, when the bullet hits, why the gunman fired?”

He realised what he’d said a moment too late and cursed his brain for not acting fast enough as he watched John tense up.

“John, I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

“You always think, Sherlock, don’t even start. That’s what you _do_ , that’s all that matters to you.”

“That is not true.” He dared to pull at the hand he still held in his up, so its knuckles pressed against his chest. The left side of his chest, where his heart, large even in human body, resided and could easily be felt.

John looked down and then up, brow knitted, wary question in his expression.

“You matter to me, John.” He said it with as much sincerity and feeling as he could possibly put into it. Not more than he felt, of course not, but he needed to make sure that it got across.

“Yes,” John agreed, and Sherlock’s hope flamed brighter for a moment. That, however, only lasted until he added, “As a possession, I do.”

A large part of Sherlock flared in anger at that. How dare he say such a thing when he’d done everything that he could to prevent John becoming a possession of either Sherlock or Moriarty earlier at the pool? When he’d never as much as tried to make John part of his treasure, to make sure that he couldn’t leave him, because he wanted him to stay of his own free will?

Another part was hurt for much the same reasons. He was laying his world and himself bare like this and John refused to see past his…

No, that wasn’t right, was it? John was working on what he knew of Sherlock, wasn’t he? That he’d determine that since Sherlock was a dragon, the value he’d see in John was as part of his collection, and to add insult to injury, he was well aware of the brunet’s skills at manipulation. He didn’t know he was being genuine; he was no mind reader.

But he’d said he still trusted him!

Dammit, why was his brain such a mess?

_Wouldn’t it be better to actually ask him, then?_

“I don’t want you as a possession,” he said. It came out as a snap, which wasn’t intended.

John’s face flickered with an odd array of emotions at that.

“Right.”

The doctor took a step back at that. Sherlock didn’t try to hold onto the hand, much as he wanted to. To be honest, it was proving hard for him to hold still at all and not press his hands against his head or pull at his horns. They suddenly hurt. Why did they hurt? His head hurt, too. Why?

He didn’t want John as a possession. But he didn’t want him to be a possession of Moriarty’s. He’d never want John merely as a part of his hoard, though. He did want him close, however, as much as he possibly could. But he didn’t…but he did…

Why was it going in circles likes that?

“No, not like – John, I really am sorry. I only…meant that…I…” Why couldn’t he formulate what he was trying to say? He concentrated, determined to regain his focus. “I would never…you would be…and I’d…I promise…this is…why does this…aargh!”

He gave a sudden roar of frustration as his thoughts scattered, skittering away from his every attempt to grasp at them, leaving only pea-soup fog and dull pain behind. His wings fluttered and flexed behind him, trying to pull in with no success. Points on his body seemed to burn cold and ache at the same time.

Were they the same places where…where what?

“Sherlock?” John’s voice, shifted from anger to worry, sounded oddly faint given how close he was. “Sherlock, what’s going on?”

“Can’t…I can’t…!” he somehow managed to say. “John. I, please…help…!”

“Of course, but how? Can you tell me? No, obviously not, otherwise you wouldn’t…but is it dragon related?”

He managed to nod, unconsciously pulling in on himself as much as he could in his position. Neither was he aware that he’d begun to let out a small, constant keening noise.

“Right. Of course, it would be. Sherlock? No, Sherlock, stay with me. Stay with me. That’s it. Come on, just listen to my voice, okay? Stay with me now, keep those eyes open for me.”

It was nice, listening to John’s voice, commanding and soothing all at once, even if it was filtered through a wad of cotton, and he wanted to obey what it said. He genuinely did but it was difficult, as the fog rose and thickened, and the pain throbbed in waves.

He’d do it, though, for John.

He’d…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the cliffhanger is back! Can I get a wahoo? No?  
> An awful lot of talking and explaining. Hopefully it's cleared up a few things or at least been an interesting read. It was certainly interesting to write, especially trying to balance exposition with character.  
> If I'm missing some tags, could you possibly let me know? My brain's a little fried and I can't think of any.


	6. Help arrives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out of his depth as to what the bleeding hell is going on, John turns to the one person he knows will not only know what to do but will help; Mycroft. But can he really help or is this beyond both their knowledge and capabilities?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just...I don't...fucking hell, guys, your feedback on the last chapter, both in amount and in quality, was just...I don't even have words for it, except a humongous THANK YOU to all of you! ❤️❤️❤️

John growled under his breath in frustration but mainly in worry and fear.

He was sore, he was tired, he’d had enough information and action, of the unpleasant and horrifying kind rather than the exhilarating one he usually saw when he was around Sherlock, to make anybody’s head spin.

His world had been turned upside down and spun for good measure, and now he had a best friend who was stuck somewhere between dragon and human and was suffering, without him having any clue of how exactly he was suffering or what he could do to help, if anything.

He’d pulled Sherlock’s phone from his pocket to hit the number that could only be Mycroft’s, given the interesting moniker the owner had been given, as soon as Sherlock’s eyes had slipped shut and refused to open again.

The elder Holmes had thankfully picked up almost immediately. He was anything but pleased, however.

“Sherlock! What on earth do you think you’re – “

“It’s John, not Sherlock, and whatever you think you’re going to reprimand him for, save it. I need your help and I need it urgently, without any Holmesian horse-hockey bullshit taking up time.”

“Contrary to what my brother might have led you to believe – “

“He’s stuck, Mycroft,” John had interrupted with a snap. “He cannot shift completely to one or the other no matter what he’s tried, he’s in pain, and now he’s slipped into unconsciousness.”

That had shut the ‘minor government official’ up, at least for the moment, and when he’d spoken again, it had been to ascertain some important information, such as Sherlock’s vitals and, of all things, John’s vitals as well.

After that, he’d told him he’d be with him shortly and had hung up.

So, now all that was left for John was wait as he tried to keep Sherlock as well as possible, given the circumstances.

He’d somehow – the weight of the man, for lack of a better descriptor, had increased significantly with the addition of the dragon appendages, thank god he was light to begin with – managed to manoeuvre him from the coffee table over to lie on his side on the sofa, much like he normally did when he was sulking. It was the only way to get him horizontal, with the wings as an obstacle, without having to worry about his breathing.

The fact that it had been relatively easy apart from the weight, the unresponsiveness of his limbs, not counting the shivers, shudders and jolts it had, aiding the effort, was an unwelcome and worrying fact.

Once he’d gotten him onto the sofa, he’d tried to do what he should’ve done earlier; treat the wounds that he’d found scattered over the back and appendages of his friend. It’d be difficult to do, with his position on his side and the fact that he hadn’t gotten the coat off, but it had needed doing and to be honest, it ought to have been done straight away.

However, the coat had presented a problem in that while he could get to at least most of the ones that needed treating, there hadn’t been any way for him to put plasters or other types of dressing on them. The most he’d been able to do was clean them as much as possible with the saline solution he always kept a stash of both in the kitchen and in the bathroom.

Applying the solution to the wounds on the back that he could get to had made Sherlock keen again rather than hiss as he sometimes did when John’s medical services had been required on living flesh. John had paused when it had first happened, trying to gauge whether the issue was just pain or something else.

There hadn’t been any other reaction that he could see, at least, but that wasn’t necessarily enough of an indicator, not on its own.

If only he knew what to look for, what things might be important for dragons that wasn’t for humans, he might be able to get somewhere on his own, alleviate at least some of his friend’s distress and pain.

Friend? Did that still apply? He’d said that he still trusted Sherlock, and he did, but did it still stretch to that? It wasn’t a question of what Sherlock’s feelings were on the matter, as John had always known it was an imbalanced street between them in that regard, aside from this whole dragon business.

He looked down at the odd shape on the sofa, the top wing curled around the body beneath it as the oddest makeshift blanket in the world, while the other, hampered by its owner position, was forced to trail along the floor, looking limp and broken.

Now that thought, Sherlock broken and beyond any sort of repair, squeezed his heart and did so _hard._

_Well, I suppose that answers that question, doesn’t it?_

Before he had more time to consider it, their front door opened to reveal the elder Holmes, with seemingly no one behind him.

He didn’t offer any greeting. In fact, he didn’t even so much as spare John a glance. The moment the door was open, his eyes focused on the shape of his brother lying prostrate on the sofa. Eyes flickered across the entirety of the body, undoubtedly taking in every detail there that he was not already aware of.

In three long steps he was beside him, dropping down on his knees in front of the piece of furniture, still somehow careful to avoid the wing, nudging it aside with his hand even as he sank down.

One hand rose, then hovered for a moment of uncertainty before it dropped to card through thick curls in what could only be described as a soothing, comforting gesture. It ought to look at odds with their normal relationship, or at least what John knew of it, but somehow, here, now, it felt as right as anything, an older brother caring for his suffering younger sibling.

It was further emphasised by the words Mycroft whispered; John only able to hear them due to the quietness of the flat.

“I’m here, Sherlock. I’m here. It’ll be okay. I promise.”

Again, the doctor felt as though he was listening through keyholes, spying on something he shouldn’t be privy to, though for completely different reasons than the first time it had happened.

He debated with himself whether he ought to just leave and let Mycroft handle things. He’d know what to do, in a way that John couldn’t.

Something inside him baulked strongly at the thought, however. Sherlock had gotten injured and was now suffering because of John. Granted, John had ended up kidnapped because of Sherlock but that was a different matter entirely.

Contrary to John’s initial beliefs, Sherlock had come to his rescue, had done everything possible to protect him, in fact, against both the snipers and Moriarty himself. It had been his primary if not only concern, to keep John safe and unharmed and he’d gotten hurt in the process, willingly.

Of course, there was the entire issue of _why_ exactly he’d become as protective as he’d been but putting that aside, as it really wasn’t that important in the situation, it had been quite the gesture for Sherlock, to put himself in danger, one which had been fulfilled, like that for another person.

The least John could do was to help him in whatever way he possibly could. He owed that to…to his friend. Yes, his friend. His best friend, still, regardless of what had transpired today or what this whole complicated business with dragons were.

So, from his position sitting on the coffee table, he reached out carefully, then stopped just before he made contact, not with Sherlock’s prone form but that of his brother’s.

“What’s happened?” Mycroft asked, without turning his head. “Tell me.”

John bit down on the comment on ‘you tell me’, because it was neither relevant nor useful in the situation, much as it would be momentarily satisfying to utter.

Instead, he told the general gist of what had happened at the pool. Then Mycroft, having finally turned around enough to look properly at him, commanded him to fill in the details and he did, as best he could. There was still a lot of things he didn’t understand but the elder Holmes listened to everything he said.

“What’s wrong, Mycroft? Why can’t he shift back?” the doctor asked once he was done. “Is it the wounds?”

“I don’t know, John,” Mycroft replied and the weariness in the voice was as unsettling as the admission. Mycroft was supposed to know what to do, even more so than Sherlock. “It could be, though regular bullets should leave superficial wounds, at best, when he’s shifted like this.”

“They didn’t bother him when they happened. He flew with them.”

“Yes. I saw.”

“Did…could Moriarty have done something to the bullets, then? Coated them with silver, drenched them in garlic, that sort of thing?”

“We’re neither werewolves nor vampires, Doctor Watson. We are not vulnerable to such things.”

“Well, then, bloody well tell me! Tell me because all I know is that my friend is in pain, I don’t know why, and I cannot do anything about it!”

His voice had risen to a shout by then. Mycroft opened his mouth, presumably to shout back, but at that point, Sherlock’s constant keen rose in volume. One arm swung out, wobbly and without direction, its hand blindly seeking something. When it managed to locate John’s wrist, more by accident than design, it seemed, it gripped it in a vice-like grip and refused to let go, despite the angle and the obvious unconsciousness of its owner.

Puzzled and even more worried, John stood to ease the strain on Sherlock’s limb. He looked to the other dragon, who was regarding them with an even more pronounced frown than before.

“Has he claimed you?”

“Has he – no. I just told you that he prevented Moriarty from doing so.”

“That doesn’t answer the question. Has he _claimed_ you?”

“I just said no!”

“John, this is important.”

“He hasn’t! The last bloody thing he said, at least the last coherent one, was that he didn’t _want_ me as a possession!”

The grip on his wrist somehow managed to tighten further, which was erring on a little painful now but mostly, it was the claws that was the issue. When had they come out? Had they been present since he’d shifted, and John just hadn’t noticed? He felt sure he’d noticed that they had been but at the same time, it felt fuzzy.

Why did _he_ suddenly feel mentally fuzzy? That didn’t make any – it wasn’t him who’d been wounded and was now suffering, not just from that but possibly something else that Mycroft wasn’t telling him about.

The idea that the elder Holmes honestly didn’t know somehow didn’t sit entirely right with John. Not that he disbelieved him, he just…didn’t quite believe him, that was all.

“That doesn’t – claiming doesn’t necessarily mean possessing!”

It was almost as much the edge of vehemence in the tone as the words themselves that shocked John. He blinked, and some of the fuzziness faded away again. Not entirely but he could think again.

But that wasn’t going to make him back down, though, as it, when he thought about it, didn’t explain a whole lot, if anything. Implied, yes, explained, not really.

“You are dragons!” he snapped. “If there is one thing that defines dragon personality, it’s the lust for and craving of possessions. That’s something every child knows, so don’t you even start with me!”

“And where in the fairy tales does it state anything about dragons apart from that?” Mycroft snapped back. “Not what they do, but who they are? We are either villains or obstacles, the monsters of the tale that need no characterisation apart from what’s needed for the moral to ring true. Is ‘bad’ all there is to the wolf?”

John had to agree the point and felt a little ashamed as well, because he _hadn’t_ thought beyond that. “The hell else does it mean, then, and how was I to know? It’s not as though either of you have exactly been brimming over with titbits on dragon lore, is it?”

The ginger man sighed. “It means, Doctor Watson, that if it is the case that he has claimed you, but not as a possession, and you are genuinely unaware of it, it might explain at least part of his reaction.”

“Part of? Why only part of?” John asked. Then he answered his own question. “Because there are several other factors playing a part, such as the bullets, and they are all tangled up.”

“Quite so,” Mycroft replied. I need to have him examined and healed before I can think of any other course of action.”

“You’ve thought of at least fifteen other courses, I know you have, and that’s probably lowballing it. But I’m telling you right now, he’s not leaving this room.”

Despite his position, Mycroft managed to draw himself up, his chin lifting slightly as he somehow looked _down_ at the other. The blond found himself just a teensy bit surprised – and that was a strange thing to be surprised at, given the circumstances – that wings didn’t spread out behind him to further drive the intimidation.

Then again, the dragons he’d come across in the last twelve hours had somewhat more of a flair for the dramatic, not to mention a love for it, didn’t they? Not that the older Holmes entirely lacked dramatics – if he didn’t, he wouldn’t have thought it a good idea to introduce himself to John like he had, would he? – he was usually just somewhat more…reserved.

“John, as a doctor, you must realise that the health and wellbeing of your patient comes before any personal considerations.”

“Yes, of course! Do you think I would have called you if I didn’t put Sherlock’s wellbeing first?”

“I do not know how to treat his wounds!” It probably ought to worry the blond just how much reaction he was getting from the other man but in the current situation, he didn’t spare it a thought.

“And that is why we’ll do this together! You have your genetic knowledge, as it were, and I have my medical expertise.”

John glared at the other but then he sighed heavily and dragged his free hand over his mouth in a weary gesture. “Look, Mycroft. I understand you’re worried. I get it.”

“I am not – “

“You are, don’t even try it, and so am I. But the important point right now is that he needs us to be there for him. Call help, if you need it, but as it is, he’s mostly human and he is in no fit state to be moved.”

“He flew you here.”

“Yes, because if he hadn’t, we’d have either been liable to get shot at again or found out by whoever arrived first, the nosy neighbourhood residents or the police. Do you fancy either of them finding your brother like this? Furthermore, it keeps getting lighter outside, which means the chance of getting him out of here without somebody noticing is getting progressively slimmer.”

He took a breath and continued, “But aside from all that, he wouldn’t let me examine him, and the flight might’ve exacerbated the matter, I don’t know. Just…help me? Please?”

Mycroft looked at him then looked over at his brother, the shivers and the breathing that was just about visible the only indicators of life. Well, that and the continued grip on John’s wrist. His demeanour softened a little.

“He must have,” he muttered under his breath, eyes on the wrist.

“Must have what?” John asked, careful to keep his voice neutral.

“Claimed you. Or attempted to. But recently, as otherwise there’d…” He trailed off, his focus on the wounds as he bent over to examine them more closely. Interestingly, he was very careful that he didn’t touch the wounds, though to the doctor, it didn’t seem born out of a fear of infecting

“There’d be what?” John prompted.

The elder Holmes glanced back at the former soldier. “I’ll explain it later. Right now, the wounds need to be treated.”

“I’ve done what I can but without getting his coat off, there’s only a limited amount I can do.”

“Even if you could’ve gotten it off, you might not have been able to get much further. Though your idea of garlic or silver is preposterous, I suspect that there may indeed have been something to agitate the wound in the bullets, effective regardless of their ability to penetrate, or lack thereof.”

“What would that be?”

“I don’t know for certain,” Mycroft sighed. He was getting to his feet, frustratingly elegantly. “It could be a few different things, I’m afraid. The fact that Moriarty is apparently another dragon could be a help in narrowing it down, as he knows what is harmful to us. At the same time, he is not exactly the most stable of people, so – “

“He was clearheaded and sane enough to know exactly how to blow his victims to smithereens. Even if he had someone to actually rig it, he would have to know about it, because they’d be in his thrall or possession or whatever. He’d use what would be harmful to both of us.”

_I don’t need there to be anything specifically harmful on the bullet. The bullet itself does that just fine._

He felt a shiver run through him that the snipers might not have shot at all if Sherlock hadn’t acted as a shield. Or they might still have. Neither the thought of being shot nor the one that saw him claimed by Moriarty was anything but horror-inducing.

Mycroft considered him for a moment, eyes narrowed. Then, without a word, he inclined his head very slightly, which, for the man, was probably as good as he’d get it.

John got to his feet, too, a little more awkwardly than the ginger-haired man, mostly due to the continued grip on his arm. They were standing quite close but even if he could move, he wasn’t about to. He’d refused be intimidated by a madman dragon with a handful of snipers, he bloody well wasn’t about to allow a pompous arse to do so, in his own home.

“What now?” he asked, with a motion towards the mostly motionless body on the sofa. “Do we move him?”

“Yes. Bedroom.”

It wasn’t an easy task, despite the general limpness of Sherlock’s lanky frame, but they managed it, somehow.

What struck John as odd was that carried between them, John taking the torso due to the grip on his hand, which complicated matters but with some painful twists was manageable, Sherlock’s head immediately, almost automatically slumped against John, nose close to his throat, clearly inhaling deeply, as though that would somehow help.

The blond looked to the ginger for answers, but only got a small but pertinent grimace in response, which he took to mean that Mycroft didn’t know but would explain what he suspected later.

With a sigh, the blond shifted for a firmer grip, grateful that at least the wings were limp now, too, and didn’t hit him in the head or similar. However, they did make steps more difficult.

Even so, it didn’t matter. The important point right now was helping Sherlock.

* * *

 

They laid him on his back when they made it into Sherlock’s bedroom. John wasn’t entirely happy with that at first, but he checked to make sure that he could breathe and wasn’t putting pressure on any wounds. There didn’t seem to be.

Of course, he had been curled around John when they’d been shot at, his front hidden by the blond, as it were, and so he was free of wounds on his front. His wings and tail were also on his back, which meant less to accommodate for on his front.

A final point was that they could get the coat of this way. Hopefully.

“Okay, then,” John said, once they’d settled him down onto the mattress. He didn’t look at the elder Holmes “Make him shift back.”

“I can’t.”

The doctor looked up to fix Mycroft with a steely glare. “I am not in the mood for being mocked or messed around with, Mycroft. I haven’t stopped being angry, at Moriarty, at you, at Sherlock and at myself.”

Mycroft seemed to have had time to gather himself, or at least retreat to safety behind a mask. “Ah. The famous Watson anger. Has it ever proven even remotely beneficial to anyone in your family? I seem to recall your sister faring quite – “

“You bloody well leave her out of it,” John growled. “As though sniping at each other and generally verbally squabbling like a pair of seven-year-olds is any better. Or looking down your long nose at everyone who wasn’t gifted with your massive brains. Now, if you want to feel so fucking superior, bloody well use that brain for something helpful. _Can_ he shift back?”

Mycroft blinked rapidly a few times but recovered quickly. The blink was a definite indicator that the mask wasn’t solid, however.

He took a moment to give the prone body, whose shivers had gotten quite pronounced by now, an assessing look. Then he shook his head.

“He’s trying. It’s subconscious at best but the wings aren’t entirely limb. Look.” He pointed to the area where they stuck out of the coat, the mass of them seeming sleek and bulky at the same time there, enhanced by the colour contrast between the dark blue of the coat and the copper-red tones of the scales.

John looked closer. Though it was from overt, lying on his back, it was possible to see muscles twitch and bunch at the ‘root’ of the wings, as it were, the movements making it look like aborted attempts at getting comfortable or shaking out of an ache.

He then realised that he’d felt the movement as they’d carried the younger Holmes, but it had been so faint in comparison with the slight jostling that was unavoidable that he hadn’t taken conscious notice until now.

So…if he was trying but unable, something was blocking him from it. That something might be something else, of course, but it might be the effect of whatever had been on the bullets, which had consequently been let in the wounds that John hadn’t been able to get at properly yet.

If he was to get at them…if he was, when there wasn’t any way for the wings to disappear, because they couldn’t before the wounds were treated which they couldn’t be until the coat came off, which it couldn’t because of the wings…the whole thing felt slightly disturbingly like the lyrics to ‘There’s a Hole in My Bucket’. A small part of John’s brain, possibly in a concerted effort to cope with a sudden burst of absurdity, latched onto that and hummed the melody in his brain.

If he _was_ to get at it, circumnavigating the deadlock, then…

Then he would have to cut the coat open.

Even the thought of that felt monumental and horrifying at the same time, as though to consider it was something sacrilegious.

It was just a fucking coat, though, the survival of a garment ought to bloody well pale in comparison to his friend’s life and wellbeing. No, not just pale. Evaporate.

And yet, it felt…immensely wrong. Perhaps…

“Is the coat part of his…his hoard?” he asked. “Can other dragons tell whether something is part of a hoard?”

“Oh, yes. Like with any territorial animal, a dragon will make sure to let others know that a certain item,” _which included ‘person’,_ John thought, the notion still unpleasant, “has been claimed, through behaviour, obviously, but also through various other markers, usually scent.”

“So, you’d be able to tell whether the coat is – “

“It is,” Mycroft interrupted to confirm. Judging by his voice, it sounded as though there was something more to it than that but right now, John wasn’t too focused on the minutia of dragon behaviour, at least not what wasn’t immediately relevant to the current situation.

“What effect does it have on the dragon to have a possession destroyed?”

“In his given state, whatever hurt the destruction of his coat might cause wouldn’t be felt and in the given circumstances, it is not significant in comparison. I will find whatever you tell me you’ll need.”

He cast a meaningful glance at John’s arm. As though he needed reminding; he was going to need tending himself when he could finally pry his wrist from Sherlock’s grip. But it was something he could and would live with.

“Good. The large pair of scissors should be…no, we used them after that. They’re probably in the living room, on the windowsill. I’ll need the first aid kit and everything I put out on the sofa table plus anything else you think essential for dealing with this.” He waved his free hand for emphasis.

Mycroft nodded curtly at that and left the room.

Alone, John could hear the continued keening again, which seemed to have quietened. He didn’t know whether that was a positive sign or an ominous one, but he seemed to detect a slight change of its tone, too. Was that slightly more desperate? He wasn’t sure, couldn’t be sure.

Hesitating for only a moment, he pushed his fingers through the thick mass of curls, much like Mycroft had done earlier and for much the same reasons. Unlike when the elder Holmes had done it, though, Sherlock moved at the contact, pushing into the hand. Not much, not like he might have done in…in different circumstances. If those would ever have arisen, of course, which he’d always doubted and now…well, those doubts hadn’t exactly diminished. Rather the opposite, really.

After all, to believe in something like that, whatever else had happened, was anything but easy when you knew that the object of your affection was predisposed to view people close to them as possessions, claimed or not, rather than as genuine people with autonomy and feelings.

But in this brief, solitary moment, even though he shouldn’t, he couldn’t help indulging in it. He was still angry, still shocked, still worried and all the other emotions that swirled inside. Those hadn’t stopped, at all, but it wasn’t only Sherlock who seemed to gain something from the contact.

He broke out of it soon enough, though, berating himself for it. There were other things of greater importance to do.

Shifting his hand to the forehead, he felt for a fever. Nothing. Then he checked the pulse as he’d done before. It was faster than it ought to be for his state, but it was steady. Except…there. A few extra beats that shouldn’t be there.

Was that significant? In a human he’d say so but in a dragon? How would he know? Was it even different depending on what appearance they had?

Something he’d read in a book long ago swam back into his mind, something about werewolves; that they were neither humans nor were they wolves. They were werewolves, whatever shape they currently occupied. Neither one nor the other and yet, at the same time, both.

Perhaps that applied to dragons, too. Even if, unlike the compound nature of ‘werewolf’, the name ‘dragon’ only applied to the shape traditionally associated with it, that didn’t entail that they were only dragons in nature when they shared the shape.

Hell, the mere fact that they could evidently shift partially between them seemed proof enough of that…and that was a mental image he really could do without, human body parts attached an otherwise mostly draconian body.

Mycroft returned from his quest for items, somewhat loaded down with them, the large pair of scissors clear among them. He passed those onto John without a word after having deposited the rest on the bed that wasn’t occupied by the lanky body.

He then went to grab the bottom edge of the coat, bringing it up into the doctor’s at present limited reach while at the same time stretching it out so that it might be easier to cut.

For once silently thankful for the number of seemingly useless things that had accumulated in the flat even while he’d been there, a pair of tailor’s scissors chief among them, John moved so the opened cutters were kissing the expensive woollen fabric as well as some of the lining.

There he paused, aware of time ticking but also of the significance of what he was about to do.

_Bloody well get on with it. His coat won’t be no use to him six feet under, now will it?_

No, it wouldn’t. He took a deep breath. Then he pressed down.

The shears went in surprisingly easy, but perhaps that was merely because he’d expected something to stop him, whether it be the heaviness of the fabric itself or some sort of barrier that tried to protect possessions from harm. It sounded ludicrous but then again, this whole bloody thing was ludicrous.

Up and up and up it went, Mycroft keeping the fabric taut as he moved with it, crabbing along the side of the bed, which eased the process. John had to pause at the small of the back to make sure he went underneath the strap or whatever it was. Then he continued, intent only on making sure it cut straight and true, until he reached the collar of it.

At some point, without his conscious knowledge, he’d put his knee up on the bed for better support, since his range of movement was limited. This wasn’t a problem, except that it had shifted the weight on the bed slightly and, so he believed, had also caused the tail to slide until a good deal of it was draped across his gastrocnemius and soleus muscles. Entirely accidentally, nothing more than mere gravity.

Even so, he couldn’t help noticing. Nor could he ignore that it looked as though, together with the hand around his wrist, that Sherlock, even unconscious, didn’t want him to leave.

He felt a stab of guilt for the thought that he might be in part to blame for this, for causing him mental distress that, in combination with – no!

No, he didn’t know that, for certain or even anything near it. The time for beating oneself up over stuff like that was after the fact, when you knew that that was the definite reason, not when it was almost purely speculation and extrapolation.

That didn’t negate the knowledge that at some point, sooner or later, he _would_ be beating himself up over it.

Once the coat was cut all the way except for the collar, he laid the tool away and took one side of the now bifurcated piece of clothing. Mycroft took the other and together, they gently pulled away and up. Even so, the fabric stuck where the wounds were, and they had to tug harder to lift it off properly.

Oddly enough, it didn’t seem to have been caked blood – which was something of a relief, as it would’ve been worrying to have enough blood there to cake _after_ John had already clean the seemingly shallow wounds – that had stuck the coat, as well as the jacket and shirt underneath, to the skin. At least, not exclusively. Most of it seemed to be a strange off-white colour with strands of red streaked through it.

What was that? Pus? But the wounds hadn’t healed yet. Infection, then? But when he’d cleaned them, there didn’t seem to have been any indication of infection.

He looked to Mycroft for answers.

The expression he saw there only heightened his worry; it seemed as though Mycroft knew what he was seeing, and it was anything but good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffhanger, I know. I know but it fitted as a cut-off point as I don't want too long chapters. That and you'd have to wait another week, then. Hopefully this is starting to answer a few things for everyone :)  
> I'm curious to know whether anybody will recognise what book John is thinking about. I felt bad about cutting the coat, is that weird?


	7. How to help an ailing dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns more about dragons while he attempt to help his friend battle whatever is going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are amazing and sweet readers, one and all of you, and I'm grateful for all of you! I'm sorry this is a day late, RL stuff has been...somewhat rough. But it's longer than usual, so there's that.

“What is it? Some sort of infection?” The addendum of ‘that affects dragons in particular’ was unsaid but audible.

Fingers as long and bony as his brother’s reached out to touch but halted just before they made contact. Then they closed the distance, pressing into the pus in a gentle manner as they scooped some of it up. The fingers were then held up for closer visual inspection before they were sniffed at and pressed between the pads of the fingers, presumably to check for texture.

“Well?” John asked. “What is it?”

“Your cleaning of the wound has tampered with it – “John told himself it was not the time to bristle over that because he’d done the right thing – “but from its appearance and texture, I would say that this is bone dust.”

John’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Okay, so this is point where you tell me there’s something special about this bone dust in particular. Because otherwise, it sounds just a tiny bit too random for Moriarty, not to mention it should not cause a meltdown for him. Pain, yes, possible infection, yes – though there was no indication of infection when I cleaned them.”

“Obviously, there is a significance to the bone dust. It’s the bones of a dragon that’s been ground down and then used to coat the bullet.”

“How can you tell that it’s from a dragon rather than a human or a cow? Why do that have an effect on him when other types, presumably, don’t? Why did it only start to affect him that long after the bullets hit? Come to that, why didn’t I see it when I cleaned them? Something ought to have been visible, even with the coat on – and why did the cleaning only tamper with it and not remove it?”

There was a veritable maelstrom of other questions swirling through his mind, new ones mixing with the unanswered ones already whirling around. It was something of a wonder he kept a clear head. He thanked his training and his concern for his friend for the focus.

“The bones of a dragon are much denser than that of almost any other being on the planet. Why is irrelevant in the circumstances but once you know the texture, it’s easy to distinguish.”

He paused the explanation to look over what he had brought back with him from his little quest. Eyes narrowed in perusal, he ended up picking a pair of tweezers and what looked to be a small makeup brush that John had no idea where they got from. Mycroft then, after a momentary pause, handed both items to John, who took them. It was hardly difficult to guess what he wanted him to do.

While the doctor got to work brushing as much out of the wounds he could reach as possible – he tried to think of Sherlock’s continued nigh-immobile state as an aid to his work rather than a signifier that something was deeply, deeply wrong and he wasn’t working fast enough to make it right – Mycroft continued his explanation, while at the same time typing on his phone.

_Of all the things for them to be similar on, why is the way they type on a phone keyboard the same?_ John couldn’t help wondering, even knowing it was completely irrelevant. So was the small amount of admiration for being able to apparently coherently type something on a phone keyboard while simultaneously delivering a lengthy explanation. Then again, he was Sherlock’s brother, wasn’t he?

“As for your other questions…to have the bones of another dragon, in whatever form they are, get past your scales and into your blood will act, well…yes, quite like an infection does to humans. Except the root cause is much more…fundamental.”

He paused, seeming to weigh his words carefully.

“To hoard isn’t a quirk or a hobby. It isn’t something we do to be selfish or evil. It’s simply a part of us, as essential as food is to you. Yes, it’s possible to go without for some time, even possible to live on very little, but you cannot go without forever.”

“Yeah, alright, I get that. But what does that have to do with…this?” He gestured with his head, seeing as both hands were occupied.

“It goes into our bones. Whatever we collect is stamped into our bones in the sense that it leaves a small trace behind for every item, in much the same sense as vitamins are stored in the liver for a human being or, perhaps more accurately, minerals are stored in the bones for them. How it works exactly is…somewhat mystical,” he made a small grimace at that, as though the fact that it had to be explained so imprecisely was painful, “owing to the inherent and frustratingly uncatalogued magic at work. But the fact of the matter is that does work.”

“So…this is like a mineral overdose? Like iron toxicity?” It was not his area of expertise by a long chalk but there were a few things he did remember from books and had encountered in his work as a GP.

That explanation sort of helped. He was still livid at Moriarty for lacing the bullets with something that so clearly was deeply harmful to Sherlock that even just the bullets grazing and making the most shallow of wounds was enough to send him into this state – yes, there might very well be other factors, too, but right now, he wasn’t focusing on those because he couldn’t bear to – but this…that here there was something he could at least start to understand, that helped, as did the fact that he was doing something.

That he might, just possibly, be helping.

After all, that was his job, wasn’t it? Looking after Sherlock Holmes and making sure he was alright, whatever that might take? That hadn’t really changed just because he happened to have discovered the bugger was more impossible than he could have ever guessed, had it?

_Improbable, John, not impossible,_ the baritone voice chimed in his head.

_If you’re going to blabber in my head, could you at least not blabber something useful for a change?_

“In a sense,” Mycroft replied, bringing him back to the here and now. “Except that it isn’t treatable, and it isn’t lethal to us. Not unless we amass far too much over too short a period. But we can feel its effects even if it’s not lethal. However, that takes an extraordinary amount of time to accomplish.”

“Would figure, otherwise you wouldn’t be that long-lived.”

There was a small bit, more of a lump that had soaked up some blood which was proving difficult to extract. When he tried, the piece stuck and, though he hadn’t heard it before while he worked, John distinctly heard the keen go up a half-notch, even if the body underneath hadn’t tensed or otherwise reacted.

He immediately stopped and, not quite consciously, began to mutter soothing nothings. When the keen after a little while subsided back into its previous level, which was thankfully lower and weaker than when he’d started the brushing, he carefully started to work again, the mutterings continuing to issue from his lips.

Mycroft watched this without comment but with more than his usual keen eye.

The little piece still proved obstinate, however, so to not bring his friend more distress than at all possible, he put the tweezers down and wet his fingers. He would’ve gone for a small pad and some water, but it didn’t seem as though Mycroft had brought it, for whatever reason, and he rather wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible, for Sherlock’s sake. The keening, weaker or no, was heart-breaking.

Ignoring the inner voice shouting at him, he brought his fingers to wound and applied just a small bit of pressure to the lump. Oddly, the keening didn’t change at that and he managed to soften it into a malleable and then a half-way liquid state, which he could then gently brush away.

He’d managed to get a bit of blood on his fingers as he worked, though, and so he lifted his hand to find a suitable place to wipe it off.

Before he could, though, his wrist was caught by Mycroft’s hand, hard.

“Don’t!” he warned and there was steel in there that the doctor couldn’t remember hearing in it before.

“Don’t what?”

“Put it in your mouth.”

“I wasn’t going to. I was – hang on, is it…it’s because of the blood, isn’t it?” Something came back to him from earlier at the pool. God, had that really not been longer than that? It felt like ages. “Sherlock was adamant that Moriarty didn’t get access to my blood. Why is blood so important?”

He would’ve thought, honestly, that if either of theirs was going to be important, it would be that of the mythological being, not a former army medic with psychological issues – maybe the PTSD was misdiagnosed but there was definitely something wrong with you if you _missed_ being in a warzone. But maybe it had more to do with the blood itself than the bearer.

Maybe the vampire comment wasn’t that far off.

Mycroft waved his hand slightly to indicate that this wasn’t important right now. With his other hand, he pulled at the pocket square of his suit jacket and, with a deft movement, wiped the blood off John’s fingers. Only then was his hand released.

“I really wasn’t going to plop it in my mouth. I’m not that daft.”

He got a raised eyebrow for his trouble and another hand gesture to indicate to get on with it.

“You could help, too, you know.”

“You are the one with the medical expertise, not to mention the surprisingly steady hand.”

“My right hand, I think you’ll find.” In a lefthanded person.

“Then again, they also diagnosed you with a limp, which has miraculously disappeared,” Mycroft continued as though John hadn’t spoken. Ironically, that bit of familiar behaviour felt just a little comforting. “And I am helping, Doctor Watson. I have contacted quite a few medical professionals with enough knowledge and skill in regard to our…species to be capable of helping.”

“They’re not coming here.” Though he knew it was stupid, because they would be far better qualified to help Sherlock than John could hope to, there was something inside of him that rebelled at the thought of having strangers poking and prodding at Sherlock in this state.

_He’s been in danger before, in hospitals before, what makes this any different?_

Because I don’t know what they’d be doing. I can’t assess whether they’re genuinely helping him or they’re hurting him merely for the chance to learn something.

_So, you would rather he suffer, just because this is an area in which you have no expertise?_

No, of course not!

_Then why?_

He had no answer. At least, he had no good one.

Mycroft looked at him, glanced briefly at his brother and John’s hand still gripped hard by Sherlock’s. Something passed across his features though John couldn’t say for certain what it was, only that it wasn’t entirely comfortable.

Then he looked back up at the doctor.

“No, they’re not,” he confirmed.

That surprised John enough to almost ask ‘are you serious?’ but he managed to bite down on it and keep it from passing his lips.

Even so, it seemed as though the elder Holmes managed to read it in his face, which really oughtn’t surprise him, because he continued, “They were never meant to come here. If my estimates are right, in conjunction with what they have provided me, we will only exacerbate the matter by bringing other people here at this point. No, you and I will have to do what is required to see this through to a satisfactory conclusion.”

“Satisfactory conclusion? What do you think this is, some sort of secret meeting in Whitehall that needs to have the most beneficial solution for the country?”

He knew his voice was a snap, but he didn’t care. Mycroft had shown genuine tender care for his brother when he’d arrived, had prioritised him over every other thing, and now he had the audacity to utter something like that?

Mycroft, his expression somewhat drawn, leaned forward from his seat on the other side of the bed. His eyes flashed. Before all of this, John would’ve written that image off as nothing more than fanciful language, just something people used when they wanted to dramatize things.

Now, though…flashing eyes had not only moved considerable steps into the realm of the real but was, in comparison to people shifting into dragons partway or fully, rather tame by comparison.

“No, Doctor Watson, I do not. If it was, I would already have that satisfactory conclusion within my grasp and be ready to tackle the next three that had landed on my desk in the interim. That would be _easy_. This is decidedly anything but. This is my baby brother in pain and anguish because he decided protecting you mattered more than anything else.”

John swallowed a sudden and large lump in his throat. He had, hadn’t he? “He...I don’t think he knew it would actually hurt him. Not like that, at least.” That wasn’t a good excuse, and they both knew it. “It was his decision, though, Mycroft. Completely. I wouldn’t put him in harm’s way. Yes, he’s a wanker and yes, I was beyond angry with him, but regardless of all of this, I wouldn’t ever – “

“I know,” Mycroft interrupted, and his voice was suddenly surprisingly soft. “You have always had his best interests in mind, haven’t you?”

That sentence, that question, felt a whole lot more loaded than it ought to have. Even so, John wasn’t about to let himself be subdued like that. Not here, not now.

“Not always but I try,” he replied.

The elder Holmes held his gaze for a moment longer than was comfortable then leaned back.

“Quite so.”

John shot him a glance that was closer to a glare before he returned to his work. Even if there was more to it than this, more needed to get Sherlock out of the woods, he could tell that it was doing something because the keening was gradually fading.

That said, the fact that the body beneath him was still limp and unresponsive, in a way that went way past what would be normal for somebody sleeping and into the realm of the drugged or comatose.

Apart from the hand still gripping his in a vice-grip. Well, in a sense it was almost as unresponsive as the rest of the body, it had just become hard instead of limp.

_Except that he’s apparently still enough ‘here’ that it can tighten at specific moments, which goes rather beyond plausibility for mere muscle reactions._

_If you’re still there, Sherlock, mentally, I hope you know we’re doing everything we can. Please, hang in there. You don’t need to do it for me, just hang on._

He tried to speed up, grateful that though there’d been many snipers dotted around, not all their bullets had managed to penetrate even that little bit, and he was almost at the end.

“Why use the bones of some other dragon, though, to – oh, wait. Of course. Stupid of me. Like giving a patient blood with the wrong antigen, isn’t it? The host body will react to it negatively, to put it mildly. If it’s already causing this much pain now, however, what difference does it make to remove the bone dust? It must have gone into the bloodstream already, but his keening has subsided quite a lot.”

“You are making sure that no more can get in there than already is. What has already been absorbed, we will deal with afterwards.”

“You said it isn’t treatable, though.”

“When it happens in the dragon’s own bones, no, it is not. That is not always but often a sign of overindulgence for too long or simply old age. But when it is an invasive body, much like the wrong antigens, yes, well done, there is something that can be done. However, for that to work, the source of the infection needs to be removed entirely. Hence, why you have been removing the dust from the wounds.”

John didn’t answer beyond a hum of acknowledgement. He’d found another little but persistent lump that he was, by wetting the brush with his saliva rather than his fingers, able to dissolve and brush away.

There. Then only the ones on the wings remained.

He waved a hand and Mycroft seemed to get the point; he helped to spread one wing enough that John, with some precarious balancing over the prone body, could just about reach and, with more saliva just to be sure when he couldn’t quite see, brushed it out.

He had wanted to bridle at the comment that he’d tampered with it by cleaning it when it had been mentioned, possibly just to rile him up, which he wouldn’t put past the elder Holmes brother. That said, he could see now that though tampering was the wrong word entirely, as he had tried to assess it _before_ he cleaned it and had never gotten to the cleaning, his prodding and poking, however careful it had been, couldn’t have helped, and he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty at that.

But that left the question of why he hadn’t spotted the dust earlier when he’d examined it. Of course, the light in the living room wasn’t exactly ideal for examinations in the dark of late night, but on the other hand, he’d done a lot of examinations in less than ideal circumstances over the years, a lack of proper light oughtn’t make that much of a difference.

It was something that he could ask about later, though. If he needed to ask questions right now, it was better to concentrate on the practical rather than the self-deprecating.

While he thought, he’d managed to get at the last bits of dust, to the best of his estimation. The keening had certainly faded considerably since he’d started, even if it hadn’t entirely vanished, as he would have to admit he’d hoped for.

He ought to have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

_Hang in there, Sherlock. We’re working on it,_ he thought, trying not to think about any possible long-term damage something like this might inflict _._ One thing at a time. Why was that so hard suddenly? He was a trained doctor who’d been to war. It ought to be easy to remain professional, even when it came to his friend.

“So…now what?” he asked as he settled back on the bed beside Sherlock, so as not to risk that he fell on top of him. “With all the dust removed, will his own blood be able to neutralise the threat? I’m guessing not, since for one, it wouldn’t then pose that great a threat to you as dragons as you implied it does, and two, you…well, I would say you’d have mentioned it but who knows? You would look somewhat more relieved, though, the similarities in your expression aren’t always that dissimilar.”

Mycroft ignored the comment. He stood up, the same frown he’d worn throughout creasing his forehead.

“Now, according to the experts,” he said once he was upright, “we first of all wait, to see whether the removal on its own will prove enough to allow his body to at least shift back into either full dragon or full human, whichever it will feel the safest in. To be stuck in a halfway state like this while invaded, as it were, has left him far more vulnerable than if he’d been fully in either.”

He paused as he looked down at the still prone figure that was as unresponsive as before. When he spoke again, it was with an odd edge to it. “I’m afraid it seems it will not be a cure in itself, as I might have hoped, but if it will make it possible for him to shift, it will have made a significant difference.”

“But…if it was a cure on its own, it can hardly be expected that it will work within such a short widow of time,” John argued back. “Things take time to recover – as you just said yourself, too.”

He unconsciously rolled his shoulder, as the scar tissue itched in remembrance, that frustrating itch underneath the skin that no amount of scratching would alleviate.

“Ordinarily, you would be right, but the partial shift is…well, not quite always a conscious decision, as it seems you have witnessed. But unconscious like this, unless something is actively blocking it, the preservation instinct would, fuelled by magic, return the dragon in question to the fully changed state that is in the perceived circumstances, the safest.”

“What you’re saying is that once again, I shouldn’t apply puny human conditions to the might of dragons, is that it?”

The corners of Mycroft’s lips lifted as if someone was pulling and stretching them against his will and best efforts. “Quite so.”

John growled under his breath at that as he glared at the other before he turned his attention back to Sherlock.

Why did this have to become more bleeding complicated while it was being explained? It wasn’t as though he was asking for the entire history and biology of dragons, was it? Just the parts pertaining to what was going on in front of him right then and there.

“Whatever you need, then, go and find it,” he said, without moving his gaze off his unresponsive friend. “I’ll keep watch over him until you return, alone. You have my number.”

He reached out again, hesitated, then closed the gap to touch, not the wings or even the hair but the tips of the horns, caressing them gently, noting their texture, before trailing down slowly into the hair then the side of his face that wasn’t pushed into the pillow, over the dawning stubble. There he kept it, resting gently against it.

There was no response. No twitch of muscle, no sound – the keening was gone but had left an odd sort of vacuum in its wake, as a persistent and invasive noise can when it’s killed suddenly. No flutter of eyelids. Even the breathing was soft enough that he could only just about feel the warmth of it on his hand. He erroneously wondered if the unexpected heat of it would be in any way related to his dragon heritage.

On a positive note, the keening wasn’t the only thing that had quietened; the shudders were now small and much more minute than they’d been since they started. He took that as a good sign. It was one of the few he had, wasn’t it?

“Come on, now,” he said, and he wasn’t aware that his voice was a whisper. “We’ve got it out. You’re safe, love, it’s okay.” Nor did he notice his term of endearment.

Mycroft did but while an eyebrow rose, he didn’t comment. The next noise he made was the door to the bedroom closing behind him.

John didn’t know what he was hoping for. For Sherlock to shift? Or just give him some sort of indication that he was still there? Anything more than breathing, really, that would be nice.

He waited and he watched. For what exactly, he wasn’t sure. Though he’d seen Moriarty shift and technically Sherlock as well, one had happened fast in circumstances where he hadn’t exactly had the best kind of overview and the other…there he’d had enough on his plate just believing that he hadn’t been slipped something and was hallucinating, quite frankly.

Whatever Mycroft had said, he just hoped that he’d calculated wrong, and some more time really would be enough for Sherlock to at least shift back. That wasn’t to say he was in the clear, of course, he knew that. But it would be something. Some indication that he was getting better.

The hand around his wrist was still as tight as ever, despite the limp and unresponsive body, which only added to the confusion. Why could he do that? Why was he doing it? Why grab John’s and not Mycroft, who’d been equally close at the time and was, after all, his brother? Surely, in such a case, even for dragons, familial connections ought to matter more.

Then again, they did have a somewhat antagonistic relationship, to say the least, and John had been living with him for a bit now. Perhaps he was just more familiar with Sherlock’s senses and instincts at this point.

He made another attempt at tugging his hand back, to no avail. Thankfully, though, this time the movement didn’t prompt the hand to tighten further or the claws to dig in.

More time passed. He didn’t speak as he sat there, just waited. Once or twice he thought he saw a quivering of a wing or felt the twitch of the tail, which hadn’t otherwise moved since it had first draped itself across his lower leg, lending credence to the thought that it had been mere accident. When that happened, he leaned closer for a better examination but each time, nothing came of it.

_Come on, Sherlock,_ he thought after another while, mostly in frustration _. At least give me a clue here, would you? I won’t even mind you going off on a rant on how stupid we all are, just give me something!_

Still nothing. What else could it be? There had to be something, something he could do, and fast. Though he didn’t know what time scale they were working on, being frustratingly, completely in the dark about the anatomy and dangers to dragons, he’d had the distinct impression that even if time weren’t of the essence, as such, it wasn’t something they could afford to just leave it be.

But they weren’t, were they? He’d removed all the dust that he could, which had eased the suffering if nothing else, and Mycroft had headed out for a cure, which he would bring back soon, and they’d apply it.

What if that wasn’t enough? What if Moriarty’s blasted meddling, whatever his reasoning for it, wasn’t the end of it? Mycroft had suggested as much earlier, even if he had claimed not to know enough about it to be definitive. But regardless, it seemed a growing likelihood that there is, that even if they fix this, Sherlock won’t wake.

Logically, if he stopped to think about it – and right now, without something concrete to do, it was getting considerably harder not to think about it, because he wasn’t a doctor here, not really, he was just a friend –  John knew that there’d been nothing he could’ve done about it one way or the other. It had never been in his power to prevent this unfolding.

He wasn’t the one who’d been giddy with delight over the bombing cases and the puzzles within them, he hadn’t goaded Moriarty into playing, if the man had even – no, that wasn’t the point right now. It hadn’t been his choice to become another pawn in their game, somewhat more literally than he could ever have suspected he would. He hadn’t hidden behind Sherlock, expecting him to protect him from danger. That had been all Sherlock’s doing, from start to finish. Hell, hadn’t he even thought the suggestion that the consulting detective would come to his aid ludicrous?

A small flame of shame burned in his chest at that, with the evidence of just what Sherlock had been willing to do to protect him right in front of him. On the other hand, it could be argued that until this point, it wasn’t as though the man, or dragon or whatever, had exactly displayed that he was willing to show, let alone capable of feeling such things. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Deliberately so? He couldn’t help but wonder, now. Nor could he shake the gnawing worry at the pit of his stomach that, as had been a previous point of worry and contention, the care Sherlock had shown for him now, so out of the blue and so intense, along with the protective behaviour, had nothing to do with John as a human being, as a person, but as the possession he had almost lost to another dragon.

But that wasn’t quite right, was it? Sherlock had been adamant, when he’d been confronted with it, that he didn’t see John as a possession nor would he ever want him to be, and while it could very well be argued that of course he would say that, to keep John here, manipulate him into staying, when he replayed it back in his head now, he couldn’t make that fit.

He’d been manipulated by Sherlock before, had fallen for his machinations more than once, and though he would be an arrogant fool to say that he was no longer that easily malleable, because he knew he was, and there were more than one technique employed, he had learned something of how Sherlock did it. Whatever he did, whatever role he shifted into to get what he wanted, it was with an ease and flair that would make a conman jealous.

This…this hadn’t been that. At all. It had been…well, he might have said that it had been raw, something which he’d never experienced with the manipulations before – and he’d spent some time brooding over them when he’d worked out that he had been had. This, however, this had been…unpolished. The pleading and the words on their own didn’t count for a lot in the setting but the fact that he’d been so…disorganised and, well, off in comparison with his normal modus operandi.

_‘I don’t want you as a possession’._ It was the second to last thing Sherlock had ever – that Sherlock had said to him before he’d collapsed. The last thing that had made any sort of sense. Even now, it managed to be both a relief and yet, somehow, which made absolutely no sense, also slightly a sting.

Something else clicked into place in his mind at that. Something that Mycroft had said. Or rather, had demanded an answer to, one which John was unable to give, and then clarified on what he’d meant.

‘ _Claiming doesn’t necessarily mean possessing’_ was what he’d said. But what did it mean, then? At the time, John had dismissed it outright, but now, as he sat there, he couldn’t help wondering.

Why else would you claim someone? No, that was the wrong way to go about it, wasn’t it? The question to that and similar ones would all boil down to roughly the same answer, which was the one he was told it wasn’t.

Or perhaps he ought to look at it a bit less literally, in the sense that saying, for instance, ‘you’re mine’, didn’t have to mean that the speaker thought of the other as a possession. The context and tone mattered, after all, as did intentions.

But what were Sherlock’s intentions? Not to claim him, according to his own statement, but that could mean, if he followed the line of thought, not that he didn’t want to claim him at all but merely not as a dragon traditionally would. Instead, it could be…

John blinked, thrown by his own thought. He looked down at their ‘joined’ hands. Was that it? Could that be the reason Sherlock had chosen John’s wrist rather than Mycroft’s to clamp onto like this?

Another comment from Mycroft floated into his mind. _‘He must have…claimed you. Or attempted to’_. How did that fit in with Sherlock’s statement of not wanting him as a possession? Either of them could be lying, of course, they were the Holmes brothers, after all, but leaving that possibility aside, why else would he make such a comment, if not for the reason that had just occurred to him?

That…well, that didn’t necessarily entail what his heart adamantly told him it did. Even if he read the implications right on what other ways a dragon might lay a claim on someone, as a person who cared deeply might rather than a possessive and dominating monster, there was another hurdle to consider. One which was, in the circumstances, just as if not more important a point.

It was no guarantee that what might be considered a…well, a romantic gesture for anybody else, and by that he meant any other dragon, would be interpreted that way or be done for that reason by Sherlock. Of course, it could be argued that this was an unconscious and therefore a subconscious action, but that still hinged on Sherlock being interested in John…like that.

Not that he would object, quite the opposite. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t had time to consider it in the time they’d lived together, and not just because everyone kept assuming that they were already shagging, and he couldn’t deny that the thoughts he’d had about his flatmate previously hadn’t all been very platonic, or platonic at all.

The issue, of course, was that it took two to tango, as it were, and Sherlock hadn’t shown interest in anyone, including John, and that…well, that was fine, too.

Though he’d been furious with his friend for his apparent apathy and callousness towards other beings – which he still was and yet, this whole protection of him if it wasn’t out of dragon instincts threw it all into a jumble and it made his head spin quite frankly – he wasn’t about to demand that he ought to feel something for John beyond what he did, merely because John felt something, okay, quite a lot, for him.

That was the crux of the matter, though, wasn’t it? Friend. Sherlock didn’t have any other friends. Didn’t seem to understand that John considered him his friend or why. It seemed to be something of a novel concept for him, to experience rather than to be a mere observer of.

It could therefore be that what Mycroft had seen as a claim that wasn’t a possession marker had to do with friendship rather than romance. That Sherlock’s brain, massive though it was, had somehow conflated the seemingly confusing feelings associated with being someone’s friend, being liked for who they were rather than what they could do, with romantic feelings and the instinctual behaviour associated with courtship had kicked in on their own.

That seemed far more likely, even if it made John’s heart ache. To be honest, it ached in simultaneously both a good and an unpleasant way. Unpleasant because, well, though he’d known it to be unrequited, his feelings hadn’t gone away, and good because it put an intrinsic and significant value on their friendship, even if a subconscious one on Sherlock’s part.

This new line of thought as to what might be an at least not insignificant part of what was afflicting Sherlock brought another thought along with it; why had the attempt at claiming not worked?

It had been suggested that he _had_ attempted to claim him in that sense, and Mycroft wouldn’t have used that phrasing if he believed, or could sense, that it had been successful. He always weighed his words rather carefully, didn’t he? So why hadn’t it? Was that failure instrumental or more incidental?

He didn’t question why he might have thought to try it at this time rather than at any other time. After all, he could still feel the points where the Irishman’s claws had penetrated his throat earlier, the small wounds stretching with every swallow and stretch, and could vividly recall the reaction from Sherlock, which had not exactly been downplayed.

But he’d thought that a reaction to somebody else trying to play with your possession, hadn’t he? Then again, it had, and to some extent still did, sounded like the most logical, in-character explanation.

That was also why Sherlock getting his wires mixed on what was friendship and what was courtship seemed the only possible explanation if there was more, or something else, to it than pure possessive behaviour.

Sherlock Holmes was attracted to no one, sexually or romantically, and that was an end to it.

_Yeah, but you also called him a machine earlier. You didn’t believe that he’d come to rescue you, and when he did, you were still surprised by his actions to protect you._

Yes, he knew all that, but –

_So, the point is that he proved you wrong on all those counts, in one night. Maybe you haven’t got quite the measure of the man that you think you have?_

I see but I don’t observe, is that it? he asked his own mind.

_Pretty much, yeah, and yes, you are arguing with yourself. But at least you’re only doing it inside of your own head._

He sighed, heavily.

One thing he did know, though, for absolutely certain, was that it was an entirely moot point one way or the other if Sherlock never regained consciousness.

John felt his heart clench at the thought, so hard that he for a moment was certain that he was about to have a heart attack or similar. That it was purely a reaction to effectively losing Sherlock rather than his body failing wasn’t as much of a comfort as one might’ve thought it would be.

Whatever else he’d done, and however else he’d made John feel in the last 24 hours, there was no denying that he’d brought a man struggling to find a reason to survive back to life and had continued from then on to give his life excitement and even, dare he say it, meaning.

After all, there wasn’t much excitement in a quiet Tuesday afternoon of Sherlock examining whatever body part he’d managed to sweettalk Molly into letting him swan off with while John read the paper or a book or wrote up their latest case. But there was an attraction to those things in themselves that had nothing to do with excitement and everything to do with contentment, and he would have to admit he looked back on them very fondly.

Losing Sherlock would mean losing a central part of himself, as selfish as that undoubtedly sounded.

“Please wake up, Sherlock,” he said to the unconscious form of his friend, his voice quiet and almost small. “I…I can’t do this without you. No matter what you are and what either of us do, you’re still my friend.”

He trailed his fingers over the stubble like he had before, the gesture tender.

Then, before he quite knew what he was doing, he leaned forward a little further and kissed his friend. Not on the lips, and not just because with the position his head was it would be difficult to kiss them properly. He didn’t quite dare go that far, even when acting without his brain being involved, and so he instead kissed him on the cheek, right where his fingers had been.

It was a lingering kiss, though, and when he realised what he was doing, he found an urge to slide his lips a little to the side and down.

With a jerk backwards as he then realised what he was thinking, he admonished himself harshly. He had no right to do that. Sherlock couldn’t give consent like this and kissing him on the lips went beyond anything he could conceivably categorise as caring for him as his doctor. That was…that was just not on.

Gods…as though this wasn’t complicated enough as it was.

Closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, he didn’t notice the small flutter of Sherlock’s closed eyelids.

What he did hear was the small noise, a sort of slightly pained, sleepy hum. Puzzled, he listened closer. It didn’t repeat.

“Sherlock?” he said, voice still low but infused with a smidgeon of hope.

There was no repeat of the sound, but the eyelids fluttered minutely again and this time, he did catch it. It wasn’t enough that they looked like they were about to open but the type of flutter that happens when people dream. Nevertheless, it was enough to make his heart thump just a smidgeon faster.

There was something there. Even if it wasn’t much, it was more than nothing. Yes, he’d been more than happy to have the keen and the shudder subside but at the same time, this eerie quiet was just as worrying.

But something still worked. Someone was still in there to react.

He firmly ignored the thought that it could be nothing more than reactions, that there wasn’t much if any actual activity in there.

Watching and listening intently for any other sign from his friend’s face, he whispered his name again, more insistently.

Nothing. Or…the hand shifted its grip. Did it? He wasn’t entirely sure, but it might have, judging from the change in warmth on his wrist, which was admittedly small and hard to keep the focus on, as when he did, it quickly warmed as though it had always stayed there.

He fervently wished that Mycroft would hurry the buggering hell up and get back there, with whatever cure he had managed to scrounge up somewhere.

No matter what had happened and what would happen in the future, no matter what he was or wasn’t, the world needed Sherlock Holmes.

No, far more importantly, though he’d never allow _anyone_ to make him a possession, whether figuratively or literally, _John_ needed Sherlock Holmes. In whatever shape he came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...that got long, didn't it? And loaded with stuff, too, but I couldn't find where I could reasonably end it before then. I hope it's been worth the wait and been interesting, it was to write. But we are moving along, at least.


	8. Cure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft returns with a cure for Sherlock at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am incredibly sorry for making you all wait even longer than normal on this chapter. Have a semi-long chapter in compensation.  
> Thank you again to everyone who leaves feedback on this. You really make a world of difference.

It felt as though an age passed before Mycroft returned to the flat, made worse by Sherlock’s stillness, interspersed with moments of possible-but-not-at-all-sure movements and other frustratingly close not-quite-indicators that fizzled out into nothingness if they were ever really there at all. When he looked at the light filtering through the gap where the curtains didn’t quite shut, he’d estimate that he’d been gone an hour, two on the outside.

Which was a little on the long side, granted, but if he was going out to locate something as esoteric as a cure for an ailment that only mythical winged lizards could suffer from, it wasn’t unreasonable to expect it to take some time. Mostly because, judging by the light, rush hour traffic had set in long before.

Though Sherlock had given him back his watch earlier, he hadn’t thought to put it on at the time and so it had been placed on the coffee table at some point between then and moving the brunet into his bedroom. He wasn’t about to leave his friend to go out and grab it.

To be honest, he wasn’t sure if he could ever put it on again. It’d be a reminder that he really didn’t need of this whole event instead of the bittersweet but fortifying one it had been when it only had connections to his time as a soldier.

That didn’t mean he would give it back to Sherlock. It was still his watch, which the wanker had taken without permission and…well, not quite without remorse, was it? He had sounded and looked genuinely contrite when he’d handed it back, hadn’t he? And there was something else at play with taking it, too.

But he’d handed it back to him, eventually. Could dragons even do that? Give things from their hoard not just away but back to their original owners? Didn’t that go against the whole concept of dragons or at least their hoarding? Especially when, as he’d been told, the hoarding was not voluntary on their part but essentially an innate craving.

Evidently, they could. Physically, anyway. That wasn’t to say that said dragon would be able to handle it mentally, either immediately or for an extended time.

Was that part of why he’d broken down like that, too? Another stab of guilt pierced him, joining the ones already there. Even the knowledge that it wasn’t necessarily the case and he was basically spinning worries out of cobwebs didn’t do much to help it go away. In fact, the addition only served to exacerbate the others.

Another thought crossed his mind as he waited; would Mycroft bring somebody back with him, after all? He’d said he wouldn’t but that was hardly a guarantee, was it? Why had he so readily agreed to John’s, admittedly stupid and ungrounded, demand? What was he aware of that the doctor wasn’t? An extensive list, unquestionably, and not just in relation to dragons, but in this specific case, he meant.

His mind circled back to the earlier thoughts on other meanings of claiming. Was that why? Could it be that…Mycroft had used the term ‘exacerbate the matter’, which would seem to strongly suggest that there would be a negative reaction to having someone unfamiliar, which neither John nor Mycroft was, enter his domain without his conscious say-so.

Even if he’d been told not to put much stock in dragon stories, the unhealthy aspect of going into a dragon’s lair unwanted was near universal. He might not react then and there, being unconscious, and even then, that wasn’t a given, but when they managed to get him awake, he might lash out immediately.

All these speculations without explanation was starting to do his head in a little. Not because he couldn’t handle them, it wasn’t that. He was adept at rolling with the punches when he needed to, his anger being a completely separate matter.

It was a case of them all taking their toll on him, quite apart from the fact that they hadn’t exactly had the quietest day before Moriarty had kidnapped John or even a quiet time before then, either. Each thing that had happened since the case had begun had layered on top of one another like the ingredients in a rather unpleasant trifle, one which weighed heavier and heavier on him.

Realising his eyelids had started to droop, he jerked upright. He needed to stay up, to stay vigilant and take care of his friend. Protect him from any possible dangers that might still assault them.

_But right now,_ you’re _the immediate danger to Sherlock, aren’t you? If Moriarty genuinely wants to add you to his hoard rather than it being merely a case of fucking with Sherlock through you, and honestly, the latter part seems highly unlikely, then you’re the risk factor. Then he would be safer if you found somewhere else to go._

And how would he do that, exactly? He was still effectively chained to the other by way of the hand around his wrist. Even if he could carry Sherlock, it wouldn’t solve the core issue of his continued presence.

He blinked rapidly and stifled a yawn. There wasn’t time for him to be tired now, he needed to pull himself together and stay alert.

That he was effectively one-handed and without a weapon wouldn’t ordinarily matter to him, except for the fact that he’d been overpowered earlier and could be so again, more easily than before, and with perhaps far more serious an outcome than the first time.

More speculation without any answers. More worry.

However much a body wants to stay alert, either through instincts telling it that it needs to or a brain demanding that it does, there will always come a point when it has reached its limit, with no more to give and though John could push his body rather far, both physically and mentally, he didn’t quite have Sherlock’s skill for ignoring his body. Though even Sherlock, for all his skills and sheer force of will, couldn’t keep it going indefinitely, as the crash he experienced after a particularly long and challenging, and in some cases gruelling, case attested to. There had been once or twice in the time they’d lived together where the brunet’s head had rebelled and shut down before he’d reached his bed or the sofa.

With all this in mind, it was rather a wonder that he hadn’t collapsed before now. As it was, he just about managed to stay awake long enough that he could settle himself on his side beside the lanky body instead of collapsing on top of it when he succumbed to sleep.

* * *

 

When Mycroft did step through the door, not long after that, on his own, it was to find both residents of 221B lying in the same bed. That was one thing, what made him raise an eyebrow. What made his heart beat a little faster in hope was that, although Sherlock was still apparently as motionless as before he’d left, he was no longer lying entirely as he had when his brother had left.

He hadn’t moved completely onto his side, but his upper body had sort of twisted more than a little towards the body of the doctor, who was on his side facing Sherlock. John’s arm had gravitated to lie across the bare stretch of skin of the side of the torso, relatively lightly but still with a curve that spoke of inherent protectiveness. What was evident was that although John had been the one to lie down, he hadn’t moved Sherlock to fit with his own position. If he had, he would’ve chosen a position far more comfortable than the one it was currently in.

Further argument in favour of that was that one wing had slid its way over and was effectively doing the same as John’s arm.

“Sherlock?” he asked, quiet, in the hope that his little brother would, with his better hearing, pick up on it if he was indeed awake or something approaching it.

No answer.

He sighed, his heart sinking just a little again. Of course, there was the small chance that Sherlock was refusing to react purely out of spite, but the continued laxness of the body told a different story. Still, he took comfort in the fact that there had been movement in the time he’d been gone, signifying one major thing, as far as he could tell.

It showed that although he had yet to shift back and seemed unable to do so on his own, there was still someone in there, something that connected; though slight, the fact that he’d tried to curl himself around John in a protective manner rather than just lie limply across him showed that rather definitively.

It also answered the question Mycroft had asked John earlier. In a roundabout way, at least. He hadn’t claimed him and if he’d tried to, he’d been unsuccessful. But it was evident that he wanted to. Subconsciously, without question, and, when he woke up, he would likely also finally be able to admit to himself and John what had been almost painfully obvious to the older brother for months.

For crying out loud, Sherlock had specifically taken things for his hoard that had far more appeal for John than it would for the consulting detective, and the doctor had, after a while, begun to source things to add to the hoard, even if he wasn’t aware that that was what he was effectively doing.

If Mycroft, who made a point of ignoring such things unless they were detrimental to his job, was aware of it, it shouldn’t be much of a surprise that Sherlock’s instinct was to protect John at all costs. He was precious to him, after all.

That wasn’t to say that they could move easily forward from there once Sherlock regained consciousness, though. If neither of them was aware, either one or the other had no desire to act on it or it was genuinely born out of platonic feelings of friendship which had crossed Sherlock’s wires somehow, then it wasn’t a straightforward case.

To find out whether the courtship was intentional, he would need to ask at least John.

* * *

 

He shook the blond’s shoulder.

Only to end up with his hand grabbed and pulled forward, the grip on it not only hard but so that the joints where the carpals met the metacarpals were squeezed together.

He looked down to see John glaring at him as he tried, through the fog of fatigue, to assess whether he counted as an enemy or not, as quickly as he possibly could, his training coming into play.

When recognition seemed to dawn, however, his hand still wasn’t let go.

John didn’t say anything, his blue eyes equalling that of a dragon in their fire for a moment as he continued to glare before he closed them, his brow furrowing as he did so. After a long moment, he released his grip on the ginger’s hand.

“Sorry about that,” he muttered.

“No apology needed,” Mycroft replied smoothly. In that smoothness, though, John thought he detected a strong undertone of warmth. Did he imagine that?

He tried to sit up, surprised at the change in position, but stopped when the wing placed over him curled further around him in an apparent attempt to prevent him from doing so.

That – that unquestionably happened. Even groggy as he was, there was no doubt that the wing moved and not as a mere result of it being shifted by something or someone else.

He looked at Mycroft, who nodded in acknowledgement. So, he’d seen it, too. An unexpected small surge of relief shot through John at that, to know that even if it was a trick, it was convincing them both.

“Sherlock?” he asked, his voice soft but encouraging, moving close enough that there would be no question of the other ‘man’ being able to hear him if he could. “Sherlock, can you…can you hear me?”

He didn’t get a verbal response. That didn’t matter so much this time, however, as he did get a physical one; the wing wrapped as much around his body as it could and the tail stirred, too. Not a lot but still some, which was far more than he would’ve expected, even if honestly, he had expected nothing or next to nothing.

He looked back up at the older brother, joy in his expression. It would be easy to also express a smidgeon of triumph at having been proved right that it would help to wait and see, that it had paid off. He didn’t feel any sense of triumph, however, just a deep and tremendous relief that Sherlock was no longer so comatose as to be completely unresponsive. Which in turn bred a stronger hope that he might just make it all the way back to the surface, as it were, and wake up.

What happened after that was a different matter but whatever it’d turn out to be, they would deal with it. Together.

* * *

 

With some effort and wiggling and a bit of help from Mycroft, John managed to get up into a sitting position. He would’ve tried to get out from under Sherlock, to give him more space in case he needed to roll over or something, but the wing did a surprisingly good job at almost-immobilising him and when he looked to the ginger, he got a gesture he took to mean to stay put.

“What now? Will he recover the rest of the way on his own, now?” He paused as something else occurred to him. “Did you get it?”

“I managed to get something, yes.”

The doctor’s eyes narrowed at that. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“That what I got isn’t…isn’t the cure for this ailment in particular.”

“You what?” John spluttered, his heart sinking again. “Then what the bloody hell have you been gallivanting around doing all this time? It’s not as though he’s just had a post-case crash, is it?”

Instinctively, he kept his voice down so as not to disturb the apparently sleeping figure beside him, even though he knew it was stupid and it would actually be better to raise his voice if that meant he’d wake him.

“I’m perfectly aware of that!” Mycroft snapped back. “As well as I am of his continued inability to shift back, despite the apparent somewhat greater state of consciousness. There may be something else preventing him from shifting back, too, but to be able to assess that with certainty, we need to be certain that no other factor is interfering and eschewing the data.”

John snorted despite himself, which earned him a disapproving look. “Sorry. I know it’s not the time, but I just had the mental image of you in lab garb, holding up a test tube. It was – “

“Ludicrous, I imagine, yes,” Mycroft interrupted. The smallest of smile flitted across his lips at that, however.

“So…how do we make certain? What have you brought?”

Instead of answering verbally, Mycroft dug into an inner pocket, not in his coat or jacket but his waistcoat. Out came what looked like several small lumps of metal in a small translucent box. Metal quite distinctive in its colour.

John frowned, not quite believing what he was seeing. The banality of it, relatively speaking. “Gold? You were gone for that long to find something that can be purchased in any jeweller in the city? Hell, I think we have some in the flat, if that was all you needed.”

“I know you have,” Mycroft replied, with again a strong hint of a snap. “I can _smell_ it.”

“You can – oh.” Well…that made sense. Sense in the context of dragons and magic, of course, but still, a surprising amount of sense. “Why not use that, then?” He didn’t add ‘when time is of the essence’ because they both knew it already.

“Because for one, what you own is _at best_ 18karat, which isn’t pure enough for it to fulfil the needed role, even if it was in a large enough quantity to be usable. For another, even if it had been the pure 24karat in a large amount, it wouldn’t have been sufficient. What has taken me this long to procure isn’t merely relatively small lumps of pure gold, which, as you rightly say, is easy enough to find in London with only a bit of effort.”

“What are they, then? Secretly the nine rings melted down?” It was meant as a sort of joke but to be honest, he wouldn’t be all that surprised if that did turn out to be the case.

He got a nonplussed look for his trouble.

“Never mind. Why are they not just your average lump of pure gold, then?”

“They have been treated, by the experts I mentioned, so that when they are applied to the wounds in question, they will not only help close it but part of them will dissolve into the wounds and burn out whatever remains of dust still remain in the bloodstream. It is the best that can be done in the circumstances, given we don’t know the owner of the bones.”

John wanted to ask how the owner was relevant, but another question barged its way in. “How can it dissolve into the wounds? Almost nothing can dissolve gold, that’s the point, isn’t it? That’s why it’s at the top of the ‘noble’ metals. Or is dragon blood filled with aqua regia?”

“Not quite.”

“What?”

“Irrelevant. It can dissolve into the wounds because it has been treated, not unlike the methods previously used to treat rheumatoid arthritis. For one thing, it has similar anti-inflammatory qualities, which I think you’ll grant is rather relevant in the circumstances.”

John nodded agreement. There was still one thing, though, that bugged him about this.

“If it’s that good…why are you still holding it instead of administering it as we speak? Or as soon as you came in, really? Or is it that you want me to do it again?”

Getting a hand free, the one hand that he had full movement of, wasn’t easy but he managed it, somehow, and reached out to take the small box, which wasn’t, as he’d thought, made of plastic but glass. Again, something pure.

Perhaps that was the reason. It could easily be contaminated by being handled and it was imperative that it wasn’t contaminated. Well, he could get Mycroft to fetch him a pair of gloves – again, between a former doctor and a chemist, there were a few odd things that just came standard – that would take care of that.

As soon as he was about to close his fingers around the box, however, it was jerked away. Not far but far enough that it couldn’t be mistaken for an involuntary spasm, something which John couldn’t see Mycroft doing in any case.

He tried again, with the same results. Frowning, he lifted his gaze to stare at the elder Holmes.

What he saw wasn’t what he expected to see, even if he hadn’t mentally articulated quite what that expectation was.

Mycroft looked, strange though it was to see and even more difficult to genuinely comprehend, pained and agitated. More than that, though, he looked somewhat angry and…hungry? No, that couldn’t be right. Why would he look hungry, of all things?

_Well, aren’t you an idiot? Why do you think? It’s **gold,** isn’t it? The one thing that is still extremely precious to and innately desired by every dragon in existence? Or did you forget that Mycroft is as much a dragon as Sherlock is?_

Perhaps he had, yes. It was somehow, relatively speaking, easier to think of both Sherlock and Moriarty as dragons, with their showmanship and extravagance. Their cravings, daft as that sounded. Mycroft, on the other hand, was almost too…quiet to be a dragon. Too restrained, too _controlled_. It didn’t seem to compute in the same way that he was Sherlock’s older brother and therefore, in actual point of fact, another dragon, with all that that entailed.

In an odd sort of way, it would be easier to assume that becoming a dragon was something you caught or, if it was hereditary, it’d be a recessive gene that Mycroft hadn’t inherited.

But that was most likely just because he had a fixed idea of what and who Mycroft was and being a dragon didn’t really fit within that image, not even remotely. Sherlock, yes, that almost made his actions make more sense, but Mycroft? Not so much, and that was hardly fair, because it relegated him to being nothing more than an obstacle or sometimes a help, not an entity on his own.

It would also be wrong to say that it was now that he’d stepped into character, because that would relegate him back to being a help to his brother, what he could do for him rather than something in himself, and while that wasn’t the most pertinent or immediately important in the current circumstances, it was important in understanding Mycroft Holmes a little bit better. Not much, probably, but even so.

As he did take a moment, his hand hovering in an outstretched position though he didn’t try to grab at the gold again, he noticed something which he really ought to have caught immediately; the eyes which he’d seen those emotions in had…changed, or rather, flashed, much like Moriarty’s had. In fact, exactly like Moriarty’s had, the only real difference being that the colour the eyes had flashed was the blue-tinted white, very much like those of his brother’s, except one was green and the other blue.

The pupils had momentarily also turned to slits before returning to their previous roundness. That he only registered they had now he found puzzling. But that wasn’t the issue that needed dealing with right now.

How could he hope to get the little box, the contents of which was, it turned out, so very important to Sherlock’s wellbeing, from something, some _one_ who was instinctively driven to collect and hold onto something like that no matter what? Regardless of how illogical it was or how detrimental to someone he clearly cared very deeply about, even if he was – they both were, to be honest, and John wouldn’t have thought either cared much prior to all this – normally rubbish at showing it, he couldn’t prevent himself from doing it, you could tell from the look in his eyes.

“Mycroft, I…we need that,” John said, trying to keep his voice gentle and soothing, much in the way one would a skittish but dangerous animal, which wasn’t that far wrong, in a way. “I know why you don’t want me to have it, I do, and it’s perfectly understandable…”

“Do. Not. Patronise. Me. Doctor. Watson.” The words came hissed out between teeth that seemed just a little sharper than before and John couldn’t help the lightning thought of how exactly transformation, or shifting or whatever, worked for dragons? There certainly seemed to be an element of emotions in the mix, at least where they came in unbidden and unchecked.

More importantly, though, Mycroft was still aware enough that he could not just acknowledge John was there, but who he was and what exactly he was doing, at least to his mind.

“I’m not,” John replied, though he did shift his voice back, not quite to his normal voice but at least to the one he employed to talk to his patients. “I’m trying to find a method that will allow me to take that gold from you that won’t result in me being gutted or having my throat cut.”

“I wouldn’t…do that.” The eyes flashed again, seemingly not voluntarily, as they widened at the same time, even as they were still glued to the small lumps glinting dully in the growing light. It didn’t exactly lend confidence in his statement, though.

What all of this did do, however, was lend credence to the explanation Sherlock had given earlier; that claiming things and hoarding wasn’t entirely a choice on their part. Probably not much so at all, and the consulting detective had just downplayed it. That he’d also averred that gold wasn’t as powerful a drug to dragons as folklore would have you believe, that could be said to have been disproven. Except…Mycroft had never taken the gold that was at 221B nor was it ever in pride of place anywhere in the flat.

So, the real explanation was likely that he’d been right, in terms of acquiring it. Once they did have in their grasp, however, that was a different matter entirely.

“No? You sure could’ve fooled me.” The doctor paused, trying to think. “Would it…would it be an idea to perhaps open the box, then shake one out into your palm so that you keep some of it?”

_Will it fool your instincts enough to allow us to apply the rest of them to Sherlock?_

“I…don’t know,” the elder Holmes admitted, the words sounding more than a little hard to get past his lips. “I would think we need all of them for the wounds but – “

“Rather one goes untreated than they all do,” John interrupted and finished for him. It was hardly ideal but there wasn’t much that ever was, and you learned to play the hand you were dealt, especially as a RAMC officer, not to mention when you lived with Sherlock Holmes.

He sighed, even more acutely aware of his friend’s condition now that he was this physically close to him and tried a different tack. “Look, you went all that way to find something that would help. Something which you _knew,_ as far as it’s possible to know, that would be a cure, and even then, you went the extra mile to be even more sure. Are you going to let all of that go to waste?”

The pain in the eyes grew more pronounced and the grip on the box slackened.

John’s voice softened further. “This is your brother. Your baby brother, whom you’ve helped, protected and loved throughout your entire lives, even if neither of you will bloody well admit it to anyone else. I saw and heard you earlier when you got here, remember?” He didn’t quote him because he knew he remembered. “He needs these, now. Please?”

He held out his hand, palm up, asking rather than demanding. Hoping that though it was a legitimate craving and therefore not his choice, he could, at least for a crucial moment, overcome that craving and give the box to the doctor. It wasn’t how you were supposed to handle drug addicts, he knew, but though addicts were far from harmless, they couldn’t rip him to shreds with their nails or incinerate the entire bloody street because they felt threatened. At least, he’d never heard tell of it, but then again, incinerated people were unlikely to publish their memoirs afterwards.

Mycroft closed his eyes, squeezing them slightly in the process as he breathed through his nose, the breathing more than a little strained. His pale complexion was somehow even paler and yet, while there was no actual sweat on the brow, the was a ruddy tint to the skin, too, one that did not look healthy.

Furthermore, it might be John’s imagination, but he thought he saw the faint, almost illusory-smoky image of wings as well as a reptilian head hover around the elder Holmes then. It wasn’t quite like it had been with Moriarty, as it was even more insubstantial than that had been, but it was along the same lines.

Was that a good sign or a bad one? He honestly had no idea.

He didn’t say anything more, just sat and waited with somewhat bated breath.

What felt like an excruciatingly long time passed during which nothing seemed to happen, apart from the mirage-like image of the dragon fluctuating in solidity. Then suddenly, in one swift movement, with a pained, but repressed noise akin to the screech of a barn owl mixed with the rumble of earth moving, he turned his hand around and pressed the box into John’s still outstretched one, closing his hand around it for just a fraction of a second before he yanked his hand back.

The box stayed in the doctor’s hand, still closed and retaining all the small but vital lumps of gold.

Mycroft, who’d taken as many steps backwards as he could, was breathing hard and ragged by that point, as though he’d exerted himself immensely, his eyes now squeezed firmly shut. He was even paler than before, the also increased ruddiness bringing it into starker relief and now there was a sheen of perspiration on his brow. There was a minute but somehow still noticeable tremor in his limbs and the images had yet to fade.

John felt a strange pang of…not exactly pity – the day he pitied one of the most dangerous and influential men in Britain if not the entire world, never mind his draconian attributes, was the day he signed his own death warrant, he was sure, and even he wasn’t quite _that_ much of a danger junkie – but certainly some genuine and deep-reaching sympathy, seeing the man like this.

“Are you…?” How did he finish that sentence? He could see that he wasn’t fine or even okay, far from it. ‘Going to survive’ seemed somewhat overly dramatic. Change of question, then. “What do you need?”

“Help. Him. Now.” If the words said previously had felt hissed or forced out, these now sounded as though they were dragged out screaming and kicking. “Please!”

John stared at him for only a fraction longer before he nodded. Keeping an eye on the older dragon just to be on the safe side, relatively speaking, he carefully opened the glass box. Then he paused, something occurring to him.

I assume the box is to prevent contaminating it as well as keep whatever it’s been treated with from being rubbed off,” he said. He saw the other give a very small nod. “Right. But I don’t have any gloves to pick them up with and the tweezers are…I don’t know where, actually, and in any case, I can’t get to them right now. How do I handle them?”

Mycroft just shook his head, another pained noise escaping him.

Oh. Right. Idiot. John, not Mycroft.

Couldn’t he just tap them out, like you did when you carefully measured out grains of something? Perhaps. It was worth a shot, certainly, mainly because it was the only real option that he had.

Sherlock hadn’t made a noise, at least none that John had heard, during that entire incident. Encouragingly, though, the tail had moved a little more and the torso was tilted further towards the doctor.

If he was to get at the wounds, however, he needed him back on his front and, preferably, up closer to him, too, so that he could reach the entirety of his back and the corresponding holes and also, get him in a position where, if he was more conscious than before, he wouldn’t flinch away from the ‘medicine’ being administered.

At the same time, Sherlock wasn’t exactly keen on him moving, it seemed, not if it seemed like he was moving away. What to do?

In the end, he settled for leaning over as best he could, hoping to everything out there his steady hand was still present and would work stretched like that.

As the first one, he chose a wound that was close to the shoulder, one of the deeper ones which was relatively easy to get to and get a fair assessment on. Taking a deep breath, he tapped on the box carefully with a finger until one lump was at the edge of the box, close to tipping over. Quickly, he brought it as close to the skin as he reasonably could without touching it and tapped again, very carefully.

The small piece of gold fell, landing neatly in the middle of the divot that was the wound. As soon as it did, the oddest thing happened. Well, perhaps not the oddest thing, compared to dragons and everything. But certainly, it ranked among one of the odder occurrences to witness, partly because it came far closer to something that he understood and had seen himself previously than what else had happened.

Yes, so he’d had some of it explained to him and had understood it by way of his own professional lens, but this was still a little bit different. That had been understanding it after the fact, as it were, while this was seeing it as it happened and formulating an understanding by his own means.

It likely also made a difference that he had an understanding of gold’s properties and to see it not even melt, which might be a stretch but still at least tenuously feasible given the oddly intense heat he knew came off the wounds, but disintegrate first and rather fast into grains as though the term ‘gold salts’ was more than a misnomer. Then, gradually though not especially slowly, those grains did dissolve into the wounds, disappearing completely.

While looking at it, he also kept an eye on what kind of reaction it would produce in Sherlock. Though he was prepared for a spasm or even a stronger reaction, which wouldn’t be ideal, and he would need to stem somehow, he would, to be honest, rather have that kind of reaction than none at all.

Though he had moved some and that was encouraging, the continued silence from the consulting detective was still beyond worrying.

If only they knew what the exact cause, or, as it seemed to be, the exact mixture of causes was.

No. One thing at the damn time. There was no use dwelling on speculations like that. He’d already wasted enough time doing it with nothing to show except more worries. This here was something that he could do and while it might not be all of it, he had faith that it would be a big part.

That he’d believed the same for the removal of the bone dust, he firmly pushed to the back of his mind.

Though he still kept an eye out for reactions, he didn’t stall to see whether one would come. It was probably bad enough that he’d waited to see it react, quite apart from having to also keep an eye on the older brother to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. Instead, he immediately moved the box onto the next wound that he could reach easily.

He worked as methodically and efficiently as before with the bone dust, professionalism edging out the worries for the moment.

When he was at the fourth piece, the crystals happily dissolving and being absorbed by the wound, something happened. Something major.

The previously limp, unresponsive body above him suddenly stiffened, tension surging into it in an apparent rush. The wing around him gave a spasm and tried to curl further while the hand around his wrist tightened, if that was possible, the clawed fingers piercing skin as they did so.

John would’ve cried out, or at the very least cursed as pain shot through him at that, but he wasn’t allowed much chance before he was grabbed and dragged further underneath the lanky body, which pressed down onto him, pinning him in place. It ought to have been impossible, with John both being heavier and stronger than Sherlock but as he’d experienced earlier, the brunet’s body harboured a strength that belied the skinny appearance, and right now, he was using it to prevent John from moving as he curled further around him.

To be honest, though, John’s priority was more on snapping the lid on the box shut as quickly as possible so that none of the lumps fell out and was wasted. Thankfully, he succeeded.

“Sherlock?” he asked, hoping that this sudden reaction did at least mean that his friend was conscious again. He wasn’t certain because he couldn’t see the face, which was turned down towards the pillow and his chest.

The curly-haired head lifted slowly, pulling away as it did. The first thing John noticed as he did so was that the horns seemed smaller, which made his heart jump with the possibility that the dragon appendages were finally shrinking away as Sherlock was able to shift back into full human. Well, human-shaped, anyway.

When the face came into view, however, his heart sank again, however; the eyes were open and clear and staring right at him. That did not comfort him in the slightest. In fact, it sent a spike of dread through his heart, and there was one specific reason for that.

The eyes were the iceberg green-tinted white that he’d seen before, with the corresponding slit pupils. The difference between the first time and now was that they weren’t flashing to that state and then returning to their pale multicoloured roundness, which John had always found fascinating. This time, even though the horns were shrinking and so seemed the wings to be, they stayed that way, the pupils almost nothing but the thinnest black line as they stared at him.

They seemed to see right through him without comprehending him at all. Cupid bow lips were pulled back just slightly, so the sharpness of the teeth was visible.

“Sherlock?” he repeated, hoping the calm tone he’d forced it into would make it recognisable to the man on top, thereby help snap him out of whatever was going on inside that massive brain of his.

For a moment, the eyes returned to their normal hetero-chromic, round-pupiled state, recognition rising in turn along with puzzlement.

John just managed to start smiling in relief and joy when Sherlock blinked, and the eyes returned to their dragon-state. The nostrils flared and the lips pulled back further, in a parody of a smile.

Fear stabbed through John at that, like it hadn’t even remotely done when faced with Moriarty.

A rumbling growl emanated from the brunet’s throat. John’s blood ran cold at the first word from his friend since he’d collapsed.

“ _Mine!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhangers! I gots them. Yay?  
> Again, I do apologise for the wait and I hope that there aren't too many glaring errors in this as a result. I am trying really hard to juggle everything that I have going, but it's difficult, especially these longer stories (with lore and changes and everything), for a multitude of reasons I shan't bore you with.  
> All this to ask you to bear with me and say that the next chapter might take a bit. I hope you will understand.


	9. Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's woken up but something must've gone wrong and now John struggles, not just to find out what's happened but to keep from becoming the next skull on the mantelpiece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still cannot thank all of you enough for your feedback. It makes a tremendous difference and means a lot!
> 
> HEADS UP. This might be a rougher chapter for people in terms of content. I don't think it's worse than what's been in previous chapters but I might be wrong. It might be that you notice something that should be warned of in the tags, if so, would you tell me?

The word came out as a hissing snarl, the baritone voice almost unrecognisable with the growl still present as an undertone.

No. No, this wasn’t happening. What _was_ happening? He had no idea except that this was wrong. It wasn’t supposed to happen. They had gotten the bone dust out. They’d found something that functioned as a sort of panacea for dragons. He’d stopped keening and had started responding, even if it wasn’t much.

They’d done everything that they could do right so why was this the reaction, the outcome they got?

Another thought flashed through his mind, fast and hard, like the wildfire of terror. Was this when he was going to die? Sherlock had said he didn’t count people, or at least dead people, among his possessions, but was that true? Even if it was, did his instincts see it like that? Could the base nature of dragons only see things they cared about as possessions?

It certainly didn’t seem as though there was much of Sherlock left in there, at least not in the driver seat. The eyes were still entirely reptilian and almost pure white as they stared at him, with no hint of actual recognition of the person underneath him. The teeth parted just enough to allow the tip of a tongue to flicker out for a moment, the movement turning the smile almost grotesque.

Not much imagination, if any, was needed to picture those teeth parting further just before they struck, either tearing the former soldier’s throat apart or breaking his neck, and it wasn’t at all because he’d seen a similar maw open.

Right now, though, apart from the eyes and the smile, Sherlock was otherwise motionless.

John held himself perfectly still as he kept eye contact, in the hope that it’d keep the dragon from deciding to make a sudden move as well as spark recognition. Any recognition apart from the base one that saw his friend as nothing more than something to be claimed.

Perhaps it ought to be flattering, that even in this state, the immediate, instinctive reaction from the dragon was to regard the human doctor as a possession rather than a threat.

It wasn’t.

Especially not when you again took the possibility of possessions being dead bodies as likely as being living, breathing people into account. When your neck was snapped and left you a lifeless doll, it didn’t much matter for what reason you were killed, did it? At least, it didn’t to you.

He wouldn’t even make an interesting case for the consulting detective. The thought flashed through his mind, wild and irrelevant but unstoppable, and it was true. It’d be an open and shut case. Probably not even a two.

_You’re panicking._

Well, yes, I bloody well am! I’m trapped beneath the shapeshifting body of a mythical, impossible being that houses the friend I’m in love with, with no hope of getting out on my own and very little of getting help, as Mycroft has other things to deal with, even if he would raise a hand against his brother to help me, and I’m most likely moments away from being killed. I would be more worried if I wasn’t panicking!

Even so, he wasn’t going to just sit idle by to be murdered. He might not be able to overpower the creature but there were other ways. He had to believe that because he wanted to live.

Although to John’s growing dread, he couldn’t spot any spark of recognition in those eyes, he believed that Sherlock had to be in there still, and if he was, there had to be some way to reach him. John had no idea how, but he had to try and do so fast, before Sherlock snapped out of his momentary stasis.

Speaking of fast, however…as he had to blink rapidly, trying to dispel the sudden feeling of fog sidling into his brain, he remembered why staring into those reptilian eyes for any length of time was an extremely stupid idea, and realised just why the dragon was quite content to stare at him rather than pounce on him immediately. A pliant little victim, content to wait for its fate, that’s what was wanted.

Lamb to the slaughter, led by the strangest Judas goat in existence.

But why hadn’t the hypnotic effects been immediate? Oh, but neither had Moriarty’s and he’d had time to prep John, as it were, so maybe…

Maybe what? What had he been…what…? The fog rolled in again, stronger than before, clouding his thoughts until they started to become an increasingly pleasant soup.

The white-green eyes seemed to glint in satisfaction. Well, that was good, wasn’t it? That he was pleasing –

No! Bloody, bleeding, buggering hell, this was the very definition of invasive and wrong! He shouldn’t be feeling content to be either killed or turned into as much of a marionette as the snipers that Moriarty controlled, good for nothing but what the dragon wanted of him, likely until he got bored with him.

Oh, but it felt wonderful, to have his thoughts and worries drain away into the white nothing that seemed to come ever closer. So very lovely and comforting. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, really…

Yes! Yes, it would! Either choice is hell but whatever the end is going to be, I’m not going to let him overpower me like this without a fight, regardless of what powers he happens to possess. It might be for naught but that doesn’t make the battle pointless.

The burning steel that was the core of John Watson flared up and pushed the clouds out of his head by sheer force of will. Human he might be, with no mythical powers or inhuman strength to assist him, but on the other hand, he was a human being. The indomitable species.

Closing his eyes, he felt his thoughts return to him. Not fast but fast enough that he could string together a sentence in his mind. He didn’t need to think about much, however; his own instincts had been awakened, though why they hadn’t weighed in earlier he couldn’t say, and they quickly assessed the situation.

He didn’t want to hurt Sherlock, of course he didn’t, but if it came down to either the dragon – this right in front of him right now didn’t feel like Sherlock at all and so didn’t deserve the name of his friend – or him, he wasn’t going to hesitate in hurting him.

As he closed his eyes, he thought he heard the faintest and strangest of small noises, one which he couldn’t identify but which seemed to come from the dragon. Was it surprised at his action? Annoyed? Amused? Enraged? All of them? He couldn’t tell but whatever it was, he didn’t want to hang around to find out what the further reaction would be.

Keeping his eyes very firmly closed so as not to run the risk of falling back under the paralysing and, well, hypnotic powers of the dragon again, he fought against the limbs pinning him and managed somehow to pull his leg up enough that he had some leverage, which he then used to first stab his knee into the wiry body’s chest and then kick his heel, as best as he could, into the groin.

He hoped that it would give him at least enough of a reaction of pain for the dragon to release his hands and him consequently being able to get out from underneath.

Once free, however, he had no idea where he would go, or even if he could make it. If Sherlock wasn’t going to hunt him down and claim him anyway, the escape only meaning a delay in the inevitable.

The wings had, along with the rest of the appendages, shrunk away, at last, a sight which even half an hour earlier would’ve filled him with absolute joy, but there was no indication that they couldn’t come back. That Sherlock was no longer not in control of them and he had merely done away with them for the moment.

Even if he couldn’t fly, couldn’t use aerial surveillance to locate him, there was not only the surveillance that Mycroft could provide, if he felt inclined to help his baby brother rather than an ex-RAMC officer and the odds of that were not in the doctor’s favour. There was also just the simple fact that this was Sherlock Holmes he was dealing with. Even if that wasn’t the case, if the person had given way to the instincts completely, there was likely other ways available to dragons.

In any case, John had very little chance of making it out of this as himself, if any chance at all.

Was this deliberate? Not on Sherlock’s part, but on Moriarty’s? That even if they saved him from the bullet wounds and the bone dust, the whole experience would send that massive brain into a breakdown that would leave only the dragon?

That didn’t tally with Moriarty wanting to claim John for himself, though, did it? Then again, that might’ve been a spur of the moment decision, whatever the underlying reason for it might be, which wouldn’t be hard to believe of the Irishman.

All these things flashed through his mind quickly as his knee and heel made impact, the main part of his brain focused on what was happening and to be ready to react when he got his window to escape.

Only, he didn’t.

Both his knee and heel clearly impacted, with a relatively large amount of force, given his position. It should have had some form for effect on the body above him, enough so that he could use the momentary distraction, whether it came from pain or pure surprise, to get out from under the other’s body.

While there was unquestionably a reaction, it was more of a small grunt – he couldn’t see the face as he was still keeping his eyes firmly closed – and contraction of the muscles which were hit. The body didn’t budge and neither did it release him.

He heard a growl again, but though it was far more pronounced than before, it didn’t sound aggressive or even annoyed. Then he felt the head move closer to his throat, betrayed by the heat coming off it, slowly but with an inevitability about it, a slight moistness indicating that the teeth had parted as well.

No. No. Oh, god, no. No, he wanted to live. Please, God, whoever might be listening out there, let him live!

He kicked again, with the same horribly muted response.

There was still no indication that Mycroft was in a fit state to help him, and even if he was, there was no saying whether in this state, the other dragon would bother to think about a potential rival rather than claiming its prize. For that matter, would Mycroft even be considered a rival, seeing as they were brothers? Litter mates? Clutch mates?

“Sherlock. Sherlock, please. Stop. Please stop. Sherlock!” he cried as he writhed and buckled, with no discernible effect.

He knew he was pleading, begging for his friend to still be in there somewhere and for him to hear him, to snap out of it and not do this. Possibly, there was a school of thought that said that he ought to try harder, fight more to get out, but he was fighting as hard as he possibly could, with all the mobility that he could conceivably gain in his current position. There was no shame in employing other methods, too, and quite frankly, when it came to saving his own neck, he wasn’t going to let what other might think dictate how he behaved.

The claws had punctured his skin at last when the dragon had woken up and taken over, and the struggles only served to push them deeper. Blood oozed from them, stoppered somewhat by the claws still embedded in them but still seeping thick liquid continuously, staining the pillow and bedsheets underneath him a slowly darkening red.

The other hand was on his shoulder, the claws also pushing in there, making more wounds to rival the ones in the dragon’s own back as well as effectively holding the doctor down.

“Mine,” the wyvern hissed again, the breath gusting across John’s throat in its proximity. He thought he could feel the tip of pointed teeth start to press ever so slightly against the already abused skin of his throat.

“Sherlock!”

The growl had turn to a pleased rumble, which only served to heighten the feeling of terror.

John swallowed, feeling the tips press deeper as he did so. They didn’t stop once the swallow was over, pressing unerringly deeper but still without piercing skin.

Does he enjoy it? Is that it? Is the terror something he can smell and does that appeal?

Oh, god, I’m going to die. This time, I’m really fucking going to die. Killed by my best friend and kept as the ultimate serial killer trophy by that same friend.

Because he still had his eyes closed so very tightly, he didn’t notice that a few tears had begun to escape his eyes and trickle down his cheeks.

If he was going to die, though…he might as well say it. It wasn’t how he’d ever imagined himself revealing it. To be honest, though, if the consulting detective hadn’t worked it out for himself yet, which seemed unlikely given that they’d been living together that long and he had yet to make any sort of comment about it, acerbic or otherwise, John wasn’t at all sure he would’ve revealed it to him at all.

The likelihood of there being a favourable outcome to such a revelation was zero, he knew that, and as he’d had no desire to leave 221b or have Sherlock pull away from him, he had no reason to.

In light of him dying, however…honestly, what harm could it do?

Of course, there was the risk that the dragon wouldn’t understand, and Sherlock couldn’t hear. It certainly didn’t seem as though he could hear his pleas for him to stop, to not do this, so there was no reason to assume that he’d somehow miraculously hear this.

But this wasn’t really about Sherlock. Sort of but not truly. Even if he did hear, the previous thoughts about his reactions still applied. That wasn’t the point. The point was that John wanted, perhaps needed to say it. That he wanted Sherlock to know without a doubt, subconsciously or by Mycroft telling him afterwards, that he, John H. Watson, loved him.

He would look the other in the eye and he would say it.

“Sherlock,” he said again as he opened his eyes, his voice deliberately, studiously firm. The sight of the side of Sherlock’s face as he’d tilted his head slightly for better access to the soft throat, pointed teeth a large part of the visage, stirred a mix of emotions in him, not all of them unpleasant. This wasn’t the Irish madman; this was his friend.

The eyes were still on him, though, even from the somewhat awkward position, and so made contact almost the moment he opened his own, boring into him.

He would’ve lifted his head a little, in slight defiance and bravado, if he’d thought it a wise idea with the teeth. He didn’t. Even talking, he could feel the unyielding quality of the teeth, but that he was determined to persist with. Though the inevitability of his own imminent demise was crystallising for him, he was going to say his piece before there was no more him, one way or the other.

He wanted to live, dear god did he, but if there were no more possibility for that, then he’d die as much as himself as he could.

“Sherlock. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I hope you can. I love you.”

The reptilian eyes didn’t blink but they widened. The teeth pulled away just slightly, no longer touching his skin, as the head tilted back upright to look him more directly in the eye.

“I love you,” he repeated. “In fact, I’m _in love_ with you.”

The face didn’t show any further hint that what he said was understood but that the teeth had pulled away, he counted as a positive thing. He knew it wouldn’t last long but any small thing was good.

_At least when it finally happens, let it be over quick._

“I possibly should’ve said something about it earlier,” he continued, all the while aware that he was talking on borrowed time, that each word could be the last, “but…I suppose I was afraid. You’d probably laugh at me if you could understand me. But it doesn’t matter. I just…wanted you to know, before…well, before you eat me.” No point beating around the bush about that, was there?

After that, he did tilt his head up slightly, continuing to look the other in the eye. The tears had dried on his cheeks, no new ones refreshing the trail.

Though it felt somewhat silly, if not downright stupid in the circumstances, John couldn’t help the small sense of relief at having finally said it to Sherlock’s face, regardless of his ability to understand him and react, one way or the other.

He hadn’t expected there to be any reaction to his words. The fact that he had gotten something of a reaction earlier he didn’t put much stock in. That could’ve been for any number of other reasons, none of which had anything to do with John being heard and understood.

Breathing deeply, he tried to steel himself for what came next as best he could. He would not close his eyes. At least, not before the choice was no longer his.

Except…there was no movement. No attempt to get the teeth to connect with his throat again. Nothing. Just the white eyes continuing to stare at him, unblinking. He thought he saw them flicker and become that more familiar pale kaleidoscope for just a moment more than once as they stared but he wasn’t at all sure. It could as well be nothing more than wishful thinking on his part.

Why was he not moving? Had something gotten through to him at last?

It felt wrong, not to mention saccharine and hackneyed, to think that it was the confession that had made a difference, as there was no feasible reason for it to have done so. But perhaps the fact that he’d spoken longer had been the important point? It had focused something, perhaps given his friend some sort of tether, a metaphorical beacon to latch onto and follow back into his own body from where he seemed to be still stuck in some form of horrible limbo inside his own mind.

John opened his mouth to call Sherlock’s name again, in the somewhat feeble but nevertheless fervent hope that it would guide him further, strengthen the tether. Anything that could help, really, and not merely because it might buy him some more time alive.

Before any words could pass his lips, however, he watched the face in front of him…stiffen, for lack of a better word. Fearing that he’d lost whatever moment he’d managed to gain as nostrils flared in inhalation, he instead watched the head suddenly whip around and the lips part fully in a snarl.

Daring to turn his head, John was surprised to see Mycroft standing rather closer to the bed than John would’ve thought. Not only that, he seemed somewhat recovered from his ‘episode’. He didn’t sport any wyvern appendages nor was there a phantom shape, whole or partial, of dragon behind him and yet, there was no question that it was the dragon that was at the forefront.

In contrast to Sherlock, though, that fact didn’t seem to entail that the dragon was in the driving seat. The eyes, though evidently reptilian, seemed somehow still the eyes that John was familiar with.

That he registered as a dragon now as he hadn’t before was borne out by the reaction the younger brother suddenly had to him, snarling in face as well as voice. He raised himself up into a kneeling position as he turned to face the ginger, freeing John a little, or, as he was still somehow somewhat hunched over him, at least giving him more room to breathe and, importantly, move. Without the teeth being inches or less from piercing his throat.

“Run!” Mycroft shouted the moment he spotted this. “Out of the room!”

John didn’t need to be told twice. To be honest, he didn’t even need to be told the once; he’d seen his opportunity the moment Mycroft had, and he took it, drawing his legs up to get them free as he rolled to the side and off the bed, the glass box somehow still clasped tight in his hand, unheeded but still clung onto.

The dragon that was his friend noticed the abrupt move away from him, of course he did, and was far from pleased with that, the audible snarl rising to include a note of screeching as the head whirled around again to where John was now getting up off the floor, the movement started the moment he’d hit the ground.

“ ** _Mine_**!” The voice was completely unrecognisable as Sherlock’s this time.

Out of the corner of his eye, the doctor saw the lanky, half-dressed body lunge towards him, eyes wild and face contorted, and he tried to speed up his movement, to will his limbs to go faster, faster.

Again, the thought of just where he would go with a dragon intent on claiming him on his tail flashed through his mind, and again, he had no answer, even if it seemed that Mycroft wasn’t intending on aiding his little brother in claiming John after all. Not that it likely mattered much but it was the thought that counted, wasn’t it?

He scrambled upright, expecting at any moment the claws or the teeth to sink into him, ripping him apart rather than merely claiming him, as a retaliation for his escape attempt. For one horrifying, heart-stopping moment, he thought he did indeed feel points against where his shoulders met neck, but it left almost as soon as he’d felt it, with an abruptness that was odd as it was incredibly welcome.

The explanation seemed to come with another snarl and an answering roar from a throat that wasn’t his friend’s.

John didn’t turn to look at what was happening behind him. Instead, he continued to move forward as fast as his legs could carry him, out of the bedroom door, which he slammed behind him on principle, as he didn’t think for a moment it’d hold either dragon out, out through the small passageway that led into the kitchen and all the way out into the living room.

There he stopped. It wasn’t to catch his breath, and he knew perfectly well that there was very little, if any, sense in looking behind you to try and gauge what was going on. He knew what would be chasing him already, and that his best bet to escape was to run and keep running. To put as much distance between himself and the dragons while Mycroft kept the other at bay.

And yet…there was something in him that didn’t want to move further. That felt horrible at the mere thought and for a moment, he was afraid that the hypnosis, for lack of a better term, was still drawing him in and affecting his thoughts as well as also his body, now.

But no. He felt clearheaded enough, able to form a complete sentence in his mind without issue and with none of the foggy pleasure he’d experienced twice now.

Was it…Mycroft had only said to get ‘out of the room’, hadn’t he? Not the flat, not the building, city or even country, any of which would’ve made far more sense in the situation. Why be that specific? You’d either be more likely not to use any specifier at all or, if you did, there’d be a reason to choose a specific place. So why the room in particular? Why not any of the others, to put as much distance between them and him while he could?

Or maybe it was just that the others were all implicit in that one descriptor. That to say more might upset Sherlock more or tip him off and be more likely to send him running after the doctor than fending off Mycroft. Or it might mean nothing at all.

In any case, his priority should be to protect himself. To keep running and not stop until he found something or somewhere that could keep him safe.

But the problem, the _big_ problem, was that he couldn’t think of where or what that could possibly be. Nowhere seemed safe. Also, apart from every other point he’d thought of earlier, there was another risk to consider, and that was Moriarty.

Why he hadn’t followed them here or had otherwise interfered was not unimportant, but the immediate issue was that if John went out into London right now, he may be running from two dragons rather than one. It didn’t matter whether Moriarty genuinely wanted to claim John, or he was just a cog in the wheel of messing with Sherlock, because whichever was the case, it didn’t alter that he’d be a hunted man.

At the same time, to stay put in the flat ran the risk of putting him straight back in the claws and maw of a dragon intent on claiming him by killing him.

_Damned if I do, damned if I don’t._

While immobile, he instinctively listened for any sound coming from the closed bedroom. He thought he heard something, a crash and some sort of growl or snarl but he wasn’t sure. He frowned.

Even a short distance away, he ought to be able to hear it far more clearly than he was. In fact, with at the very least the screech earlier, it had been loud enough that someone should’ve heard and reacted to it.

Were the police on their way? A group of incurably curious, if not downright nosy, neighbours? Both? What would happen if they turned up and started searching the place, then found the two brothers fighting with either appendages or something else that gave away their less-than-human – no, not less, other-than-human – origin, at which point the likelihood of this turning out anything other than a complete disaster was eradicated.

Not that it was very likely to turn out good at this point. All he was doing right now was delaying the inevitable. But then again, that was always the way, wasn’t it? That was how humans survived from day to day and how they’d hung around for so many generations.

The thought that all of this might expose the two brothers to the world, purely because Moriarty had meddled, or at least mostly, that twisted and tore at something deep inside John.

He was meant to protect Sherlock. Hell, he’d promised to, hadn’t he, even if not in so many words, when he’d been effectively keeping vigil over the unconscious body earlier?

If he was going to die anyway, and he couldn’t see a scenario in this entire mess that didn’t end with him dead, either physically or at the very least mentally and psychologically, then he owed it to Sherlock to stay and protect him to the very best of his abilities.

_Are you really going to sacrifice yourself on the altar of friendship and unrequited love like that? What happened to staying alive? Not being a possession? Does that suddenly just crumble in the face of his wishes? Were you really that right about you continuing to stand by his side no matter what?  Even if it costs you your very identity? Because that is an unhealthy relationship if ever there was one, I’d say._

There was some truth in that but not all that much. It didn’t crumble; in other circumstances, he would’ve held fast to those ideals with tooth and nails. Hah. And to be honest, as much as he still had no desire to die, he would do a lot to ensure that Sherlock killed him rather than turn him into a marionette.

_Perhaps my skull can end up on the mantelpiece alongside Billy? On either side, perhaps, so that they balance out? Make a proper feature of it?_

A louder bang than before, which was accompanied by a clearly audible shriek, jolted him out of his thoughts.

Someone was definitely going to hear and come running – or alert the police. Did Lestrade know about their nature? John wouldn’t have thought so, or he wouldn’t have had such a disregard for overturning the flat, the den of a sodding dragon, like that in a drug’s bust. The man had never struck the doctor as suicidal.

John, finding that his legs were suddenly, finally cooperative once more, darted over to the front door to close and lock it. Trying not to think about the fact that in the process he was also locking himself in with two dangerous creatures, for all that he knew them, he looked around the living room.

A lock wouldn’t be sufficient to hold them out for long, if they were determined to get in. Dragging the sofa over would be the most efficient way of blocking the door but it was not the lightest or most easily movable item in the room. Nor could he drag it onehanded, and his left arm, though the blood was no longer oozing out, felt heavy and lethargic. Certainly not up to the task of pulling a sofa over.

But there were other items that he could drag onehanded and so he did, listening all the while for further sounds from either side, trying to gauge what was going on and when he should be ready for the fallout.

Once there were enough things stacked in front of the door to form a proper little barricade, he stopped. There were still no definitive sounds coming from either end but that didn’t fill him with anything but further tension.

It would come. He knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suspect this isn't what people thought they were going to get. I don't mean to spin it out or whatever else it might seem like, this was just how it turned out when I started to write.  
> Also, I know it's rather out of whack of normal scheduling (this should've been the week for KotF). I am trying to juggle a whole lot of things right now and Friday just really wasn't an option to upload on - and KotF I'm struggling a bit with.  
> Sorry, I'm rambling again. Thank you all and apologies.


	10. Get away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to find a way out of the situation, one way or the other, but one that hopefully won't see him...well...  
> It isn't help by Moriarty deciding to call or his own conflicted mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support and for taking the last chapter so well. :3 ❤❤

Minutes ticked by, without anything other than the outside noises of normal city life. It seemed almost absurd, that life ticked on like ever before just outside their own windows.

His phone rang, the noise of it shrill in the eerie stillness that had descended on the flat in the wake of the earlier muted commotion.

Thinking that it might be Sarah, or possibly Greg, calling him because he couldn’t get hold of Sherlock, with the risk that he might come to Baker Street or even already be on his way, John answered the call. Without checking, because his focus was still mostly split between the door and the bedroom.

“Hello?” he said into the speaker.

He wasn’t sure whether he had unconsciously expected the voice he heard on the other end to be who it was but regardless, when the voice did register, it made him tense up further than he already was.

“Johnny-boy!” the lilting voice said, a note of what might be faked delight in it, and then again, might not be, even if it wasn’t quite as innocently cheerful as it might suggest. “How lovely! I didn’t think you’d pick up – are you free for another play-date, then?”

“What the fucking hell did you do to him?” John replied, a snarl of his own in his voice.

“Aw, is he not tackling it well? Tut, tut. And here I thought you might bring him along, too. We did so get along. Such a shame.”

“Don’t piss around, Moriarty. If you wanted to kill either of us, why the bloody buggering fuck didn’t you just do that at the pool?

“There you go again, no manners at all,” Moriarty sighed, almost theatrically put-upon. Then his tone shifted entirely, to something that sent a chill down John’s spine as it had before. “Killing you at the pool would’ve been _boring_ , Johnny, and I do not like boring.”

Even though he couldn’t see him, it wasn’t difficult to envision the brown eyes flashing amber at that.

“Why did you bother looking at me in the first place, then?” It wasn’t a good idea to ask such a thing, he knew that, but Moriarty wasn’t the one he was worried about angering right now.

That question only earned him a small chuckle, which he knew ought to have been a bigger surprise to him than it ended up being.

“Because you’re far from boring, at least for now. But then, very few things aren’t boring for long.”

“Wouldn’t Sherlock have fit that criteria? What’s the point of mucking that up if that’s what you want? To not be bored?”

The Irishman’s voice was back to cheerful, although that didn’t help the chill down John’s spine. He knew how fake that cheeriness was now, or at least how temporary and changeable it was. “Sherlock’s very boring. He doesn’t want to play or share.”

“But you _can’t_ share as dragons, isn’t that the whole point?!”

_I really don’t have the time for this,_ John thought, _but at the same time, I don’t want to find out what happens if I hang up on him. He’s wrought enough chaos here as it is, and I’m in no doubt that he can cause a whole lot more if he gets annoyed._

“Yes.”

The word was hissed and for a moment, John thought he could feel that tongue on his face again. It was all in his head, of course, thankfully, but the memory was uncomfortable all on its own.

He didn’t want to play this game. If Moriarty wanted to spend time taunting him like this, John was going to get some proper answers out of him.

“How do I get him back to normal? What exactly did you do to him and how do I reverse it?”

“Hasn’t dear brother Mycroft been scouring the shops for suitable gold to use? Or…hasn’t it worked like you thought it would? Or…like he said it would, at least? Oh, poor darling, having to put your trust in dragons like that.” His voice changed again. “Trust will get you killed.”

_I’d rather be killed by him than by you._ He didn’t voice that thought out loud, though, as he didn’t want to add fuel to the fire. Or whatever.

But still…was there some truth to that? Had Mycroft been – no, of course he had! It was ludicrous to even entertain the notion that he hadn’t been telling the truth. Why wouldn’t he? Even if he didn’t care about John, even if Moriarty was right and it was wrong to put your trust in dragons, which he didn’t believe, there was still Sherlock.

However much apparent animosity there was between the two, it was the petty sort that only siblings know how to ignite and keep aflame. One that could be snuffed out, or at least brought down to the merest embers, when the situation called for it. The fact that they were dragons didn’t alter anything.

If Mycroft had faked the concern and care he’d exhibited towards his brother when he’d seen him lying unresponsive on the sofa, then he was wasted as a civil servant and a profound loss for the acting profession.

So no, he couldn’t see any reason for Mycroft to lie about the gold being a dragon panacea. Not even the, in hindsight obvious, reaction to having to give it up counted towards that, really, no matter how difficult it had been. In fact, that he’d given it up _despite_ abundant evidence he didn’t want to, was only further proof he’d been telling the truth, and that the recovery of his brother was more important.

_In general, it’d always also be a good rule to dismiss anything Moriarty has to say on principle, wouldn’t it, though?_

_How do I get answers out of him, then? Everything he says might be to mess with me, or not be, just to mess with me further._

“If that’s the case,” he said out loud, still with an ear on both directions where trouble could potentially lurk, “then I don’t see any reason to continue talking to you, either.”

“Oh, but you don’t trust me, Johnny-boy. The only reason you’re asking me is because you have no other choice. You’re not scared of me, either, though, which is interesting.”

“Do you expect me to be scared of you because you’re a dragon or because you’re off your rockers?”

He got no immediate answer for that but got the distinct feeling that he’d managed to amuse the man again rather than anger him, which served to anger John.

The life he’d worked to build after being honourably discharged and the life he’d hoped to have in the future, both of those had been ripped apart by Moriarty being bored and thus ‘playing’, with no discernible sign that they could ever be mended. How could that fail to make him angry?

Not all of it was directed at Moriarty but right now, he was more than fine with channelling and concentrating that anger directly at the Irishman, even if he was unable to physically get an outlet for it. That the man, for a given value of the term, didn’t even see fit to have the expected sort of response – though of course, it really was par for the course, given his apparent mental state – to a given situation, including this, was only adding fuel to the fire.

Even more fire was added when the eventual verbal response he got was, “No…I expect you to either die or wish you had. Well, if you still had the free will to wish for anything at that point, of course.”

Another crash sounded from the bedroom and the erroneous thought of ‘there shouldn’t really be more to crash in there’ flitted through his mind. However, it also brought his focus back more fully on what was possibly unfolding in there and the fact that at any minute, it could spill out into the passage and further, put the danger closer to him.

“Look, is there any reason that you’re calling me, at all or specifically now? Because if there is, and I don’t think – no, actually, I don’t care whether there’s a reason you’re calling or not. Piss off and leave us alone.”

“Long to stay on the phone if you didn’t care at all.” The voice sounded almost hurt now, in a way that’d probably be believable, if it’d been anyone else. Then it changed, dropping to a hiss. “Do you really think the only thing I’m capable of is bombing people?”

“No, I think much more highly of you,” John snapped back. “I think you can kill people in all sorts of ways or just fuck them up. I don’t care what you do, you cannot make this any worse, so just _piss off!”_

_“_ Can’t I? I think poor little Molly would disagree with that, along with your faithful bumbling policeman.”

No. No, no, no! No, this wasn’t happening. Not them, too. Why couldn’t he just learn to… _stop?!_

_Calm down, would you? You just thought to yourself how you cannot trust him on anything, why would you suddenly trust him on this? He’s deliberately trying to rile you._

But why?

_He doesn’t bloody well need a reason. He just needs an excuse and you’re giving it to him free of charge!_

Another crash and finally it registered in John’s mind what it had been he’d heard crashing. It wasn’t items in the room – now knowing what he was and what that entailed, the room seemed oddly spartan in its decoration – smashing to the ground because the two dragons were fighting and knocking things over.

At least, it wasn’t exclusively that. One crash had definitely included the tinkle of glass shattering, but a few of the others, and this one included, was the crash of something colliding heavily with some wooden surface, presumably a door, which was beginning to splinter underneath the continued assault.

_Well, you can say this about the bugger; if nothing else, he’s determined and persistent._

This really wasn’t an area in which those traits were good things.

Of course, it could also be the wardrobe they’d hit but repeatedly? Unlikely. The splintering audible underneath the last crash seemed somewhat conclusive. It was rather loud, which meant that it wouldn’t stand up to much more before it broke, and Sherlock continued his hunt.

He was out of time. To protect himself, to run away. To protect the ones he cared about, because there was a slim chance that Moriarty was actually telling the truth, even if retroactively, as it were. To be his own person. To get a chance to say goodbye.

To end it himself on his terms rather than by anybody else’s, especially three variations of dragons.

All of that, Moriarty had robbed him of by calling him like this, just as he’d robbed him of his future. His best friend. His love. His personhood.

And for what? Because the berk-shite was _bored_ and wanted some sort of diversion, and he’d decided that going for Sherlock, and by extension John, was the best option for it. Nothing more than that. No deeper meaning, just…boredom.

_Or he genuinely wanted you and now he’s lashing out. Doesn’t make it better, admittedly._

John’s blood was metaphorically boiling at that point.

“I will kill you,” he said into the phone, his voice deadly calm. “Whatever I’ll have to do to stay alive long enough to find you and kill you thrice over, I will do it.”

With that, he hung up. He took a deep breath.

Time to get it done.

* * *

 

The wood finally splintered all the way, making it rather unequivocal that it was indeed the door that had been hit rather than the wardrobe, especially when the remains of said door fell down and landed on the floor with quite the audible thud.

John listened intently for further sounds, this time mainly from the dragon side of things, even though he also kept an ear on the outer door, just in case that somebody did try to break in that way.

That would just be the tin-lid, wouldn’t it? The dragon breaking through just as the mob, or whoever else it might be, made it through the other side. Almost bloody Hammer Horror.

If it was a Hammer Horror, though, this…what seemed like it was going to be the end would probably feel awfully anticlimactic, all things considered.

_Well, if they’re going to come bursting in here, they could at least be kind enough to bring the torches, for the extra flare. As it were. One set of flames against another._

_Shut up, this really isn’t the bloody time!_

_If there isn’t time for gallows’ humour now, then when?_

He was still in the living room, though he’d moved closer to the windows straight after having hung up on Moriarty.

Which was probably a completely idiotic thing to do but at this point, John couldn’t bear to think of any more worries, especially not when they crisscrossed and contradicted one another.

_In a way, it’s almost going to be a relief, then, isn’t it? To not have to think anymore. Just…stop._

He wished he could wholeheartedly and immediately dismiss that thought as untrue. As he couldn’t entirely manage that, he settled for telling his mind to shut up, again, hoping that it would.

The front door was, by opening into the flat rather than out and therefore meeting the barrier John had managed to get in front of it, keeping people from entering the flat. At the same time, it also made it difficult to get out of the flat that way – for John, at least, for Sherlock it’d probably be cakewalk to claw or burn his way through. Did he even have fire breath? It was almost the defining feature of a dragon but for all he knew, they didn’t, or some spewed flame and others spewed…other things.

But the windows…it would be more than a little stupid to try and get out that way, but it could be done.

It might seem contradictory to his earlier behaviour and thoughts, to be ready to climb out a window and down a building without any proper handholds or experience in wall-climbing to escape from them. Especially in light of his earlier consideration that he wouldn’t make it far, not to mention his promise that he’d protect Sherlock.

But that was just what he’d do. Protect him, and by that extension Mycroft, by escaping. Not forever, he still didn’t believe that would ever work, but long enough that he could make it to Whitehall, to Mycroft’s offices and warn whatever-she-called-herself-at-moment. As Mycroft’s PA she’d know, as well as know what to do about it.

That way, he could at least make sure that no harm would come to the Holmes brothers and they wouldn’t likely be exposed, either. ‘Anthea’ knew her stuff, after all, or Mycroft wouldn’t have hired and kept her. Hopefully, though that was a bit more uncertain, what with the time he’d have to spend going from Baker Street to Whitehall.

It’d be roughly twenty minutes by tube but that would be, if he was caught before he reached his destination, be an enclosed space where potential fire outbursts would prove far more detrimental than in the open air. By foot, though, he’d estimate that a run would take him there in twenty-five to thirty-five minutes.

In that time, Moriarty could easily manage to harm any or all of the people close to both Sherlock and John, quite apart from the time it’d take to actually get into Mycroft’s office and her, and for her to organise things. He didn’t doubt she could move quickly, but still.

Even so, it was worth it.

_Worth it to put all the lives of the people you’ll run past to get to Whitehall in danger from a fairy tale creature intent on claiming you which, according to every story you’ve ever heard about it, has fire at its beck and call? How are they worth more than all the other people, apart from the fact that Molly and Greg and Mrs. Hudson are important to you?_

They weren’t. To him, yes, of course they were, but that wasn’t a valid reason, and no, he couldn’t think of a good reason beyond that. But if he was honest, with perhaps just a touch of rationalising thrown in, he could admit that, he couldn’t see Sherlock, even in the state he was now, incinerating people like that.

At least, not before he’d gotten hold of John and the dragon sought to keep others away from its treasure. He’d seen how the bric-a-brac that’d been brought home had been handled, after all, and he guessed it would be the same fate for him. Even Billy wasn’t ever manhandled.

That and spewing flame, from a human throat, before he’d caught hold of his flatmate would run the risk of incinerating John as well. Though he couldn’t entirely discount it – ever since this whole ordeal started, he hadn’t been able to discount much of anything – the likelihood that a pile of cinders would be able to count as treasure for a dragon was slim, to say the least.

He could, of course, have gotten a head start by crawling out of the window the moment he’d hung up instead of waiting for the door to come down and the younger dragon to cover the distance, as he was now doing. But while there was merit to the idea, he’d chosen to stay until he could see what state his friend was in by now. More importantly, it would also mean that Sherlock would be able to see him leave.

Possibly he could trace him regardless of whether he was seen or not, either through his nose or even ‘normal’ Sherlock methods, but to provide him with clear confirmation of John leaving that way might prevent him from further anger, from it escalating.

A clear trail might appeal to the instincts of the dragon even if the person behind would wrinkle his nose at something so easy.

Or maybe he was just stalling for time. Though he knew he ought to, he hadn’t yet given up hope that he would see Sherlock without the dragon again, for more than a second or two, not entirely. He’d tried, hard and several times, but had found that he couldn’t.

_Good old John. Loyal bleeding-heart right to the end, eh?_

Once the door hit the floor, several noises followed, among them the footsteps thudding hard against the flooring, bangs against walls, from something that John couldn’t identify and just audible, voices.

Why were they so muffled, though? And there was one noise in particular that he was listening for which he wasn’t getting; that of any type of growl, hiss or roar, especially the last one.

The dragon wouldn’t have been pleased at being challenged and restrained, thereby preventing him from getting to John as he wanted. Hell, he’d _seen_ that it wasn’t pleased. Now that it sounded like he’d managed to overcome Mycroft – John fervently hoped that didn’t mean the death of the older dragon – and was closing the distance, it would stand to reason that he’d make some sort of noise. Either one of anger and danger or one of triumph and that it in any case would be something that could be easily heard.

And yet…there was nothing.

Stalking his prey? But dragons weren’t exactly the type of shape suited for stealth. Of course, they would be far more capable of that when in human form but even so, their mindset didn’t seem right for that, either. Then again, Sherlock wasn’t normal for a human being, it’d somehow make sense that he’d employ behaviour not typical of dragons, either.

It certainly seemed as though he was trying to sneak up on John, to gain the advantage and recapture him.

_Except I’m waiting for you, you bastard._

Part of him felt bad for thinking of his friend like that, but it was a small part and was in any case drowned out by the knowledge that it was the dragon, not Sherlock, he was dealing with. Besides, he’d called him worse things when he’d been completely himself, hadn’t he?

He held his breath as he waited. For a moment, he’d thought of going for his gun but had decided it as for one thing, it was up in his bedroom as normal, and, more importantly, he’d seen how little effect bullets had on a dragon, ones without special coating, anyway.

In what simultaneously felt like a very long time and no time at all, he could see the shape of the brunet emerge from the small passage and into the kitchen where he stopped for a moment. From his position near the living room windows, John couldn’t see him clearly but still well enough to see that the appendages hadn’t returned.

That was about all he had time to register before the dragon was on the move again, moving at the same time with a force and a grace that should be incompatible but looked completely natural.

It wove past the clutter of their kitchen as effortlessly and quickly as a dolphin through the water while his eyes didn’t waver from their target for a moment. None of the obstacles in the path between him and John seemed to be any trouble for him, and he was closing fast, still as silent and intent as before.

There was something else in those eyes, too, however. Something changed but at the distance, John didn’t register it. Or maybe he did and didn’t know what it signified.

John hadn’t expected the speed but managed to get the rest of the way over to the window before the dragon was out of the kitchen. He hadn’t opened it before, worried that the smells coming from the opened window would tip the other off on what he intended to do.

Luckily for him, it didn’t stick too much, which was just as well, as he was forced to turn his back on the dragon while he worked, doing it one-handed simply not possible. He tried to listen for him as he worked, though, and refused to be panicked by it.

The window slid open and he was up and sitting on the sill before he’d gotten it all the way up.

Looking out, he saw that he’d have to squeeze out between the window and the ornate railings more than he thought he would have but on the other hand, he could use the railing to pull himself out instead and swing other onto the other side, climbing down it enough that he’d be able to touch the canopied awning on Speedy’s with his feet. It wouldn’t break his fall, of course, but it’d help him make sure he didn’t land on the spiked railings at the front door of 223. Small mercies and all.

He reached out, still with his back unfortunately turned, and managed to get hold of the railings, which seemed, despite their obvious age, rather sturdy and in good nick. Victorians did love to make their ostentation last, didn’t they? Thankfully.

Satisfied that it’d be able to bear his weight at least for long enough that he could drop down and hopefully not sprain something, as would just figure with everything else that had happened, he started to pull himself out – only to be grabbed by the ankle when he was almost all the way out.

No. Not yet. Fuck it all, he couldn’t be caught so soon. That wasn’t the plan.

_And maybe therefore you shouldn’t have waited for him like the giant idiot twat that you are but gotten on with it the moment you hung up on Moriarty – or alternatively, at the very least when you heard the door fall down._

There was no point in dwelling on that now, though. Done was done and he’d have to deal with the outcome.

Though he could feel the claws on the bony fingers as they circled and tightened around his ankle, it was only around the one, which left his other foot free. It wasn’t the best or safest way to do it, but he estimated that he’d have about enough leverage, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to allow the dragon to just pull him back in like it pleased.

Not yet. Not ever if he could’ve helped that but since he knew that couldn’t be the case, then certainly not yet.

So, glancing as briefly as possible over his shoulder to try and gauge where exactly the brunet’s face was, which consequently meant that he didn’t take in anything beyond that fact, he tightened his grip on the railings and kicked backwards, feeling his shoe connect with something hard and bony, not something yielding. He would’ve thought it to be the jaw, which was certainly not quite as guilt-inducing as hitting him straight in the nose.

It wasn’t as though he was exactly thrilled to hit Sherlock, even in the circumstances, but he would if that was what it took to get him to let go and allow John to get out.

There was also the risk that it wouldn’t be enough to do that job, seeing as he hadn’t exactly been hurt by the bullets themselves. Nor had his earlier attempt to kick him yielded any result but this time, it might possibly at least shock him enough to let go. It was a frail hope, to say the least, but it was about all that he had right then.

He thought he heard a noise come from the dragon as his foot made impact but whether it was one of pain or merely surprise, he couldn’t say. It wouldn’t have mattered, either, if not for the fact that despite his best effort, his ankle was not let go of. The grip didn’t even loosen.

He kicked again, harder and wilder than before, just trying to inflict enough damage or cause enough shock that he could pull the ankle free and get out. But he didn’t have the element of surprise on his side this time and instead of impacting with a part of the other’s face again, he had his other ankle grabbed, too, the grip just as strong as the other.

Both hands began to pull at that. Not hard, not forcefully, just enough that it took a real struggle to keep his grip on the railings.

Despite that, hold on he did. Even as his fingers protested and the cuts that he’d sustained on his wrist earlier sprang back up and began to trickle blood, he held on. At the same time, he also tried to pull himself out of the grip using that very hold.

A thought occurred to him while he wriggled and struggled; the dragon had remained, apart from that one noise, entirely silent ever since he’d gotten into the kitchen. No roar, no hiss, no exclamation of ownership. Nothing at all, which was almost more unsettling than the alternative.

Why was that? Had he managed to sink further into whatever primal state he’d descended to? He didn’t seem to behave more ferally otherwise but perhaps that wasn’t how it worked with dragons.

It didn’t matter. What mattered was making sure that he not just got word of to their friends to warn them of both Sherlock and of Moriarty but to make sure that neither of them could actually turn up and hurt them, one way or the other.

He realised he himself was making plenty of noise, mostly through swearing as he struggled. It wasn’t something which had much coherence except being a string of abuse that he was controlling at all, just his mouth running off by itself. At another time, he might’ve wondered why it was doing that now and not at an earlier point but right then, he didn’t spare the thought.

Then he saw that people passing on the street were actually looking up at him as they passed, though they didn’t yet find it interesting enough to stop and watch the spectacle of what, to outsiders, probably looked like a loonier version of a domestic.

This wasn’t how he’d intended to attract attention, if he’d intended to attract attention at all. In fact, it was exactly what he’d been afraid of in relation to why he’d barricaded the front door in the first place, wasn’t it?

His mouth clicked shut hard, though he didn’t stop struggling as hard as he still could against the hold the other had on him. The people passing stopped glancing up at him.

Then, though his mind was filled with thoughts, he heard his name being called.

For a moment, he had no idea who said it or even where it had come from. Then he thought it might’ve come from someone down on the street but that wasn’t the case.

Where then had it come from?

Then, he realised where and, more importantly who, and his heart vaulted in his chest.

He closed his eyes, praying that he hadn’t misheard and that it wouldn’t turn out to be just a ploy to stop him struggling. It wouldn’t fit with the baser behaviour but then again, dragons were cunning by nature, weren’t they?

_Regardless of whether it’s a ploy or not, you can’t deny that you left it too late to get away from him and now you’re caught without hope of escaping. You might as well see for yourself._

Reluctant though he was to agree with that, he nevertheless opened his eyes and turned his head.

To find Sherlock looking intently at him with just about the oddest expression John had ever seen on him, which was quite an achievement given all that had gone before.

In contrast to when he’d regained consciousness earlier, though the pale eyes were still those of the dragon rather than the person, it wasn’t the near-blank slate of then or the subsequent grin of possessiveness. Alternately, it could be said to have been the grin of a skull, too.

In fact, while that base blankness was still in there, the rest couldn’t be more of a contrast, with the positive tapestry of emotions vying for space on that face. Anger, for one, bordering on that strange kind of rage that he’d seen before, more animal than human. Joyful triumph was another. Confusion was a large part and so was pain, both the twist of physical pain and the deeper but subtler emotional and mental one. Fear, dread, horror and panic was, though not quite as large as the others, slowly growing.

Tying them all together was a hopeless and yet hopeful, almost desperate pleading, as if Sherlock really didn’t understand anything anymore and he was asking John to make sense of it for him, somehow.

That pleading, that naked vulnerability that was too lost and flickering to be anything but genuine got through to the doctor, and not just because it was that of the lost creature pleading for help.

It was his friend looking out at him again, not the dragon. Regardless of the eyes that hadn’t returned to their human state, he felt certain in calling them that. That was Sherlock looking at him, for help, for guidance to understand what he couldn’t.

As he’d done before while they’d lived together. Every time, in fact, he’d looked to John.

It might be that he was being tricked, of course, with the nature of dragons and everything that had happened, but it didn’t feel that way. If that had been within the vocabulary, as it were, it felt likely that he’d have employed it much sooner, feral reaction or not.

Besides, it wasn’t as though he had anything much left to believe in, was it? And it certainly wasn’t as though he had many other options, either.

_And you also want to believe that he’s still in there, too._

Well, yes, he did. Of course, he did.

“Sherlock?” he asked again, aware of all the times he’d called that previously and hoping that perhaps this time, it would get through. Fully. Truly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this doesn't feel as though we're right back where we started or that nothing's happened, though I fear it might. If so, I really apologise. We'll get somewhere, I promise. This just keeps on ballooning, I'm sorry.  
> Moriarty is still something to balance for me.

**Author's Note:**

> There. Not too long to start off on.  
> Again, don't expect this to follow the episode very much.  
> I enjoy writing Moriarty (does that sound wrong? I bet it does) but he was a little difficult this time around. Hope it doesn't show too bad :)  
> I'm thinking the rating might go up later but I don't know so we'll keep it there for now. :) Might need a few more tags, too.
> 
> Feedback is loved and treasured, as always :D


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